Seven Percent
by SHolmes4
Summary: On Sherlock's 20th birthday, Mycroft discovers his brother's new 7 percent "habit"...  Rated for Drug use etc maybe eventual S/J in later chapters.
1. Happy Birthday

This is the continuation/elaboration of CH. 9(Happy Birthday) from my story Brother's. You don't have to go to that one to read it, that Chapter is below. I moved that here to make it its own story... (Hope that makes sense...)

Rated for Drugs etc...

Sherlock: 20 Mycroft:27

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><p>It was Sherlock's 20th birthday; he had come home from uni, upon mummy's request of course. Mycroft was called away from London as well, for the customary family dinner. The party was to be nothing ostentatious, Sherlock wouldn't stand for anything more than the immediate family and even then that was barely tolerable.<p>

Sherlock had come on Friday to stay the weekend, Mycroft arriving early Saturday morning. Father tended to work on Sunday's so Saturday night was ideal, though there was never a guarantee of his attendance.

"Good morning, Mummy," Mycroft greeted, striding into the familiar dining room.

"Is that my Brolly?" Madame Holmes greeted, rising from her breakfast with open arms and a smile upon her delicate features.

Mycroft colored at the nickname of his youth as he embraced her warmly. "And where is the dear birthday boy?" he after they parted.

Madame Holmes sighed audibly, returning to her chair. "Sleeping," she shrugged tiredly, worry evident upon her features, "He was in a right state all yesterday, do see if you can coax him down for breakfast." She asked patting his arm.

"I'll see what I can do Mummy," he offered, patting her shoulder as he crossed behind to exist.

"Thank you, cher," She smiled, "I'll call for your boy's breakfast."

Mycroft headed up the back staircase, towards his brother's room. Trying to prepare himself for his brother, whatever was going on was clearly upsetting mummy and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He paused in front of the door smirking at the hazardous symbol that still graced it, then raised his fist to knock tentatively.

"Sherlock?" He called as he wrapped upon the wood. Without a reply he moved to open the door to find it strangely locked, a new habit no doubt. "Sherlock, come, open the door… it's time for breakfast." Mycroft listened cautiously, hear clinking around from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there," he sighs, "Mummy wants you to come down."

A dramatic groan sounds from inside the room, "I'll be down promptly," Sherlock's voiced curtly."

"You had better," Mycroft stated, waiting a beat to make sure Sherlock was actually up and moving. Mycroft ambled back down to the dining room, informing mummy that Sherlock would be joining them.

"Good to see his moods are better since going to uni," Mycroft jested tucking in to his breakfast.

"Do not start, Mycroft," Madame Holmes chided, "This is his weekend and I will not tolerate any fighting."

"Good morning!" Sherlock interrupted strolling in energetically, "Mummy, radiant as always," he offered kissing her cheek. "Mycroft, as rotund as ever," he smirked mischievously, taking his seat across from his brother.

Mycroft was quite taken aback at how much thinner his brother had become since last he'd saw him.

"Sherlock be nice," She warned, but there was no threat in her words as she scanned over the paper.

"So nice of you to grace us with your presence," Mycroft offered bitingly, "Late night?"

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, starring down at his plate with a frown; then opting for a small bite of his toast.

"You must be hungry, cher," Madame Holmes offered, rubbing her sons arm affectionately. "Sylvia said you didn't even touch your dinner last night," she added, her brow creasing.

Sherlock sipped his coffee thoughtfully, "Do not fret, mummy," he started, "Mycroft's here now, he'll eat us out of house and home before the days out." He quickly pilfered a part of the morning paper.

"I must have forgotten, Sherly, but how old are you turning again?" Mycroft smirked, "Five, was it?"

"Ah, yes, I must seem a mere babe to a man who's almost 30... going on 60." Sherlock retaliated, then gasped, "'Croft! Is that a bald spot I see?"

"Enough!" Madame Holmes snapped, standing up from her chair. "If you two cannot behave like the two loving and caring brothers I tried to raise you to be, then this evening is canceled."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked aside, earning a death glare from his mother.

"Am I making myself perfectly clear?" She asks looking down her nose at her sons.

"Yes, Mummy," The boys grumbled in unison, their mother never losing the terrifying quality that her temper held over them; even as they got older.

"Wonderful," She smiled returning to her seat, "Now eat your breakfast, and then you may be excused until dinner."

Mycroft finished first, retreating to one of the front rooms to do some paperwork he had fallen behind on. Around noon, he started to get a bit peckish and decided to trot off to the kitchen for a snack since he still had a good 5 hours before dinner. As he made his way down the long hallway, he couldn't help but over hear the raised voices of him mother and brother coming from, mummy's office. Treading slowly, Mycroft's curiosity got the better of him as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

"What do mean, you aren't sure if you're going to continue your studies?" Madame Holmes questioned in shock.

"It's superfluous, I've learned all I need to know," Sherlock informed her, "There's nothing left for me there, therefore you and father are just wasting your money."

"Wasting our money!" She repeats credulously, "It would be a waste if you didn't finish, Sherlock... You are brilliant, and that will mean nothing if you don't have the proper credentials to back it up!"

"I don't see how a scrap of paper can confirm or deny my level of intellect," He stated venomously, "Any idiot can graduate University!"

"Get out of my sight," Madame Holmes ordered him, "We'll discuss this when your father is home."

"Oh," Sherlock prodded sarcastically. Mycroft shaking his head in the hall, his brother never did know when to shut up. "Is dear daddy going to grace us with his presence this year? It's only my birthday… wouldn't be the first one where work came first."

"You haughty, ungrateful child," She snapped, and Mycroft could picture the head shake the accompanied her words. "I do not want to see you until 5:30 for dinner and we will talk about this when father is home." She glared icily back at her sons similar gaze as he turned to leave. "Oh and Sherlock," she stopped him, "I want you to think long and hard about what you're suggesting here, is the price really worth what this means to us?"

Sherlock fixed his mother with a look, his face hard; but his eyes betraying him. "That price is my happiness," He stated under his breath as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft acting as quickly as he could so he wouldn't be caught, heading straight for the kitchen as he replayed all he heard; including Sherlock's parting statement. He decided that after grabbing a quick snack he'd go in search of his brother.

Searching the large house, Mycroft found his brother locked once again in his bed room. He knocked on the door again, "Sherlock, may I speak with you?" he inquired, hearing the clinking of glass and rustling from within the room.

"Just a moment," Sherlock replied, opening the door a moment later.

Mycroft took in his appearance, the buttons on his shirt sleeves undone but not rolled up and his eyes were red as if crying. "May I come in?"

"Very well," Sherlock sighed, padding from the door and flopping on his back on his large bed. "What do you want?" he asked, his fingers idly drumming on his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

"Wanted to chat, you know, how's school and life in general?" Mycroft inquired, sitting in the high backed chair in the corner across from the bed.

"Peachy," Sherlock huffed.

"Clearly," the elder brother sighed, looking out the window. "You know I won't force you to talk to me, least of all about how you're feeling… I know how you abhor such things, but clearly something is wrong."

"Spying again, 'Croft?" He cranes his neck to glare at his brother across the room, "Is the government not paying you enough for your skills?" Mycroft fixing him with a knowing look, as if to say you can't fool me. Sherlock sighed audibly in indignation, "It is of no concern of yours, you will hear it all out by the end of the weekend any way," his frown deepened. "Now if you'd be so kind," he motioned limply to the door, "I wish to take a nap before the frivolities."

Mycroft studied his brother, knowing full well he was lying. Sherlock didn't even nap as a child, and there was clearly something off with his underweight brother. He pondered the idea of stress, due to the current situation, but he had a nagging suspicion that there was something more.

"Fine," he rose from his chair, "If you do wish to speak, you know where to find me." With that, Mycroft took his leave, and they brothers didn't see each other till 5 as they headed down for the birthday dinner.

"There are my handsome boys," Madame Holmes greeted them warmly, Sherlock nodding as he headed to his customary seat.

"Uh uh," She tisked, "Sherlock you sit here, she placed her hands on the chair at the head of the table. "The birthday boy gets the seat of honor."

The younger man frowned as he moved to his designated seat.

"Where's father?" Mycroft questioned as he sat to the left of his brother.

"He's running late," She smiled brushing it off, "He'll make it in time for cake."

The three of them, sat in awkward silence as their food was brought to them. They ate silently, Sherlock picking at each course, even though it was his favorite meal prepared just for him. Never fully finishing any of the courses placed in front of him and ignoring Mummy's disapproving glances.

Their father still had not arrived by the time they had eaten their last bite, and mummy insisted that they remain in the dining room and wait for a bit before doing the cake. Mycroft went off to procure a board game, the three of them playing a brutal game of Scrabble. An hour later, Sherlock was reaching his breaking point.

"He's not coming can't we just get this over with?" He huffed, flicking a lettered tile.

"Your father is a man of his word," Madame Holmes fixed him with a look; "He will be here."

"Did you get new curtains in the parlor?" Mycroft asked trying to keep the situation stable.

"Why yes cher," She beamed, "The old ones where terribly shabby, it was just time for a change."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing away from the table before rising, "I'll be right back."

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" She asked sternly, knowing better then to assume he wouldn't try to run off.

"Toilet." He stated curtly, turning on his heel and heading out of the dining room.

Mycroft knew better of course, his brother was actually going out to the garden for a smoke. A terrible habit, really, it was fine once in a while but at the rate his brother was going he'd need at least 3 packs a day in less than a year. Father arrived in Sherlock's absence, bringing the cake in with him, the candles all ready lit. The song dying in his throat as he realized his youngest was not in the room.

"Where is the lad?" He questioned, looking around. No sooner did he ask, and then Sherlock strode back into the room. The singing commenced instantly, much to Sherlock's ire as he returned to his seat.

They cake was cut and he was bestowed two presents. After a couple bites of his cake he pushed it out of the way and towards Mycroft.

"Come on, son, open up your gifts." Mr. Holmes instructed.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed, wishing he could just leave all ready. He opened the envelope from his parents, feigning surprise at the fifty pound note inside which was their customary present. "Thanks," he murmured, pocketing the money until turning to his brothers gift.

"I was going to wrap it in a large box to throw you off, but I figured straight forward was a better approach this year." Mycroft smirked, sliding the simply wrapped square to his brother.

"A, C.D." Sherlock arched a brow as he unwrapped the gift. "Sarasate for violin," he read aloud, holding up the case.

"Figure you'd appreciate it," Mycroft offered.

Sherlock nodded, reading the contents on the back. "Well I think that it's lovely, very thoughtful of you Mycroft." Madame Holmes offered.

"Well, Happy Birthday," Mr. Holmes offered, "The 2-0, eh…" he sighed wistfully, "The good ole' days." He took his wife's hand smiling before turning back to his youngest, "So how's uni?"

"Can we go five minutes without talking about my education?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"I haven't seen you in months and I'm paying good money for your education so I'll ask what I damn well please, you have no right to speak to me like that, young man."

"'Ford," Madame Holmes warned her husband, trying to keep him calm.

"That's correct, father," Sherlock stood, his tone getting loud, "You haven't seen me in months and you couldn't even be on time for dinner!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft began.

"Shut it, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped. "And as for school, I'm sure mummy can fill you in on the details."

"Sherlock Holmes!" She rose, in full scolding mode. "You sit down right this minute and apologize to your father!"

"No," He snapped back about to push out the door.

"Where do you think you're going young man?" Mr. Holmes stood as well his voice deadly calm.

"You taught me to step out if I cannot calmly and rationally talk to you… so I'm stepping out!" And with that, he left C.D. in hand.

Mycroft slunk away, shortly after his brother left. Their parents discussing the current situation and Mummy filling father in on what transpired earlier, a conversation he didn't need to hear again. The door to the house slammed and echoed down the hall, Mycroft getting there in time to see his brother running down the drive to a car that was waiting outside the gate.

He had no clue as to what to make of his brother's departure as he took up a seat in the front room in order to observe his brother's return. A few hours later his mother wandered in, causing him to look up from the novel he was trying to be interested in.

"We're going to bed, Brolly." She informed him sadly, "He went out then?" She peeks out the curtain. "He will be the death of me," She shakes her head with worry,

"I'll keep an eye out for him."

She smiled sadly and kissed his forehead warmly, "Thank you cher… I know it's hard to see, but you are a great brother and one day Sherlock will come to see that."

"I know mummy," He nodded sternly, glancing to the window. "Good night."

"Good night."

Mycroft watched out the window for a while after Mummy retired before trying to turn back to his book. That task seemed in vain because shortly after he began to drift off, his head falling back as his mouth hung open in sleep. He was woken abruptly, by the sound of violin music coming from above. Checking his watch he noticed it was just after midnight, he stretched briefly and headed toward the apex of the noise; his brother's room.

Without preamble, Mycroft burst into his brother's room surprised to find the door unlocked. That is until see saw his brother; perched on the window seat with a cigarette in his mouth and a needle poised at his arm, a dusting of powder on the Sarasate case.

Mycroft blinked for a moment, taking in the scene with his hand still firmly gripping the door knob. "Sherlock," he breathed, unsure what to do or say.

The younger man fixed him with a look, inhaling in his cigarette as he pushed the plunger home.

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	2. Revelation

It seemed like ages passed before the elder brother's brain finally clicked back online. By that time, Sherlock had already re stowed the needle in an old fashioned black case and was leaning back against the wall of the window seat; the drug making its way through his veins.

"What's the meaning of this?" Mycroft asks, trying to keep his tone even, to not betray himself.

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums, his eyes closed languidly as his forgotten cigarette burns between his fingers. "Experiment," he offers finally.

"An experiment," He scoffs closing the door behind him and fully enters the room no point in waking their parent, yet. "How long, has this been occurring?"

Sherlock seems to come out of his lethargic state as the drug begins to take effect. "Relax 'Croft," he snaps, snubbing out the cigarette before lighting another. "I'm not addicted, it's for a class."

"Oh, a class… that makes it alright then." Mycroft bites out sarcastically, "This class at the same university where there's nothing left for you to learn or the University of Life?"

The younger man rolls his eyes, disentangling his long limbs from his perch as he strides across the room in search of something, "Don't be dull."

"Ah, there it is then," He studies his younger brother critically, "You're bored and you think this poison's going to help."

The younger man shoots a well aimed look of ire, "Not at all," he shakes his head, denial seeming to be his best option, "Fine, you caught me… its insulin, shocking I know…" Sherlock feigns contrition, "We all thought you'd be the one to get diabetes…" he mocks.

"Cut the act, Sherlock." Mycroft snaps at him, "This ends now," he orders.

"This is my present to myself, thanks to Mummy and Father!" He seethes. "Besides, I've worked out the perfect percentage for desired effects."

"What's this really about, brother?" He studies the drugged boy before him, hardly recognizing his brother, "You really believe you're clever enough to control something so volatile, all because it helps you think."

"I don't expect you to understand, Mycroft," Sherlock huffs, pacing back and forth in a flurry as if acting out the activity in his mind.

"Oh I understand perfectly, Sherlock," Mycroft states superiorly, like he's addressing one of his underlings at work, "You're unhappy, and instead of facing it like an adult you've resorted to artificial euphoria…"

Sherlock scoffs, stopping his pacing to stand resolutely before his brother.

"What's going to happen when this percentage isn't enough, hmm?" Mycroft continues his berating, "Because it won't be Sherlock, you're smart but you're foolish to think you can do what generations of people have been unable to achieve."

"I'm not addicted, Mycroft, I know what I'm doing." Sherlock grits out, his fists clutched at his sides as the violin music continues it's sonata in the background.

"I hope that's true for your sake," He fixes the younger man with a hard look, "What happens when you come down from your high and reality isn't good of enough?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow in disdain, his lithe body pulled taught like a rubber band ready to snap, "You don't understand, this is out of your control."

"You're right I don't understand," Mycroft admits, "But I know you Sherlock, I can see exactly where this is going to lead."

"You're just jealous," the younger spits out; taking his brother by surprise, "I've surpassed you, I'm cleverer than you could ever hope to be and that upsets you," Sherlock wrongly deduces, as if this was a huge revelation.

"Jealous?" He scoffs, "Please," Mycroft sneers, "You're high, and it's clearly distorting your perception more than you realize. What will you be then if your "brilliant" mind is gone?"

That's when it happened, Mycroft finally hit a nerve and Sherlock snapped hitting the older man square in the jaw. Mycroft's lip was bleeding as he righted himself, facing his brother. He schooled his features into a mask of simmering indifference and authority; as Sherlock huffed, the adrenalin interacting with the drug as he seethed.

"Grow up Sherlock," He states simply, quickly taking the paraphernalia off the window seat and striding to the door. "I'm telling Mummy," he adds haughtily, slamming the door in his wake.

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	3. Rational

Mycroft locks himself in his room, it's late after all and it won't do to wake up their parents. All traces of tiredness have been erased from his mind as he carefully washes his face, mindful of his lip and changes into his night clothes. He sits at the window of his room starring out the window as he processes everything. He's skilled in envisioning every possible scenario for his job and it's no different now, sitting in the echoing silence as he ponders his only brother's choices.

If he tells mummy, Sherlock will be in a mess of trouble. It's his first trespass, but it won't be dealt with lightly; especially by their father. That's not to mention all the worry and possible grief that will take residence within mummy. It's something that Mycroft isn't sure he will be prepared to do, there is always the chance Sherlock is telling the truth.

His dear brother, has always been one for wild experiments; forgoing all risks in the name of science. Mycroft ruminates on this fact, wondering if surveillance is the call to make. Keep the secret, yet monitor Sherlock's experiment to ensure it doesn't get out of hand. Give the younger man an ultimatum that if for any reason he seems addicted, his hand will be forced and he'll have to pay the consequences.

Mycroft, internally, comes to an agreement for the proper course of action. He'll speak with his brother in the morning and hammer out the details. Crossing the room to his old computer, he emails his assistant to draw up a contract and have it here by first light. Satisfied, he crawls into his old bed, and sleeps the best he can, given the circumstances.

Meanwhile down the hall, Sherlock's high is starting to wear thin as he continues to pace about the room; shaking out his still burning hand from when he struck his brother. He debates running away, as cowardly as it is he'd at least not have to go back to uni or face false allegations against him. Why did Mycroft always have to stick his fat nose into everyone's business? He was twenty now and had been living without the influence of his older brother for many years. At times, it felt like he was an only child due to the age difference between them.

Sherlock flopped onto his bed, starring up at the ceiling at his thought continued to swirl. If only he was an only child, he thought. Then this stupid incident would have never happened. It did no good to dwell on what couldn't be he rationalized, turning his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Would this be the final straw against his already upset parents? What actions would they take then? Cut him off from all the privileges, force him out on the street…Sherlock's mouth curled up at the thought of that.

In the end, he decided to face whatever punishment was thrown at him. He didn't need or want his parent's money and Sherlock sincerely hoped that they'd pull him out of school. Whatever was decided he knew he wouldn't stop his experiment, the good outweighed the bad; even if Mycroft couldn't see it.

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	4. Contracts

Mycroft awakes early, as per usual. The contract he requested is awaiting him down stairs and he can't help but smile at the efficiency of his people. Reading it over in his dressing gown he takes it back upstairs with him, deciding there was no time like the present to deal with the situation.

With out preamble he bursts into his brother's room. Sherlock curled up tightly on the bed, but fully awake as he stares dejectedly at the wall. His dark hair a mess from tossing about on the linen's for hours on end.

"Good morning," He greets closing the door, "We need to talk."

"Here to bring me to the gallows, then?" Sherlock asks his voice low.

"Don't be so dramatic," Mycroft sighs. "Now get up, I know full well you're awake." He pulls the covers grandly off his brother's curled body, using his body weight as his advantage.

Sherlock turns, glaring at his brother as he props himself up on his elbows reading what he observes. "I'm not signing anything without my solicitor," he states haughtily.

Mycroft gives him a look as if to say, please who'd take your case. "This is just an agreement between the two of us," he tosses the papers on the bed for his brother to read over. "As you can see, I've decided against exposing you."

"Why?" Sherlock huffs scanning over the document, "So you can spy on me? You really take voyeurism to a new level, brother."

"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt Sherlock, don't make me regret it," he warns with authority. "I'll let you continue this… "experiment" of yours, under the condition that if it's not concluded by Christmas or at any point becomes more than pure scientific inquiry, I will step in and take proper actions." Sherlock pouts, the new data racing behind his eyes as he silently absorbs it all. "Understand?"

The younger man nods, holding his hand out for a pen as Mycroft happily obliges him. A severe scribble latter and the document has been signed and dated, tucked away in the pocket of Mycroft's dressing gown.

"How are you going to explain that?" Sherlock questions his brothers split lip.

"Simple really, you came home late and I startled you." He smirks, "I am sorry," he adds as if the lie is truth. "Now stop pouting and come down for breakfast, I may have handled this incident, but Mummy and father are probably still quite cross with you."

Sherlock groans petulantly as his brother waits for him to come along. The younger man knowing full well that it's to ensure he doesn't "experiment" before breakfast. It was going to be a very long day.

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	5. Plans

The brothers arrive at the dining room to find both parents already seated and partaking in their small morning regiments. The pair pausing and looking up from the papers, a bit surprised at the boys arrival.

"You two are up early," Madame Holmes comments. "I would have thought you'd of have slept more, dear." She addresses Mycroft.

"Its habit I'm afraid," He informs her as he takes his usual seat at the table across from mummy.

"A good one to," Mr. Holmes nods, "You won't get far laying about." He smiles proudly.

"Oh, cher, whatever happened to your lip?" She asks in concern.

"It was just an accident Mummy, no need to fret..."

Sherlock suppresses a scoff as he takes his seat next to his mother, a foul mood already settling upon him. He decides to remedy the situation before he slips further into the low that can accompany the absences of his solution. He awkwardly clears his throat, "Mummy, Father," he gets there attention, "I wish to apologize for my behavior yesterday," he mumbles, only doing this to placate them.

"Thank you, cher," Madame Holmes smiles softly at him.

"We'll continue that discussion, after breakfast," his father nods sternly.

The younger boy nods in understanding, but wishes that the conversation was over as he picks at his breakfast; drinking mostly coffee throughout it. After everyone's finished, Mycroft excuses himself for whatever reason. Sherlock watching him mutinously as the older man escapes the horrible conversation he's about to endure.

"Now what's this business about dropping out?" Mr. Holmes asks starring expectantly at his youngest, folding his newspaper and dropping it on the table.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, "There's nothing left for me there and it's just a waste of money." He states flatly.

"Your only a couple years away from finishing, Sherlock," Madame Holmes informs him.

"Irrelevant," he states, "All they offer I can and have done independently, it's useless."

"No one will hire a chemist who hasn't finished their schooling," Mr. Holmes informs him sharply, "Now I understand if you don't want to continue for a doctorate, but you will at least graduate."

"No," Sherlock, starts, not wanting to have to go back.

"No?" Mr. Holmes asks trying to school is ire.

"Cher," Madame Holmes addresses her son; placing a calming hand on her husband's arm, "What about your mates? I know you didn't get on with your first roommate, but that was only for a term and you and Kenneth seem to be becoming fast friends."

Once again, Sherlock fights back the urge to openly scoff and just how oblivious his parents really are. Yes, his first roommate was terrible and awkward, but his current roommate was quite the opposite, boisterous and excitable and seemed to be becoming more and more obsessed with him. Sherlock was still cordial even though he was clearly not interested, but he knew that none of those people where true mates and the loneliness, which he had grown accustomed to since Mycroft went off, was still eating away at him.

"What do friends," he spit the last word out like it was poisonous, "Have to do with anything? I'm not sure if chemistry is really what I want to do and maybe I'll go back one day, but I need to figure things out." Sherlock offers logically, and as truthfully as he can.

"I'm not wasting the already used tuition money, just so you can figure yourself out." His father informed him.

"You can find yourself, while continuing your schooling." His mother offers, "That's what I did," she smiles trying to keep the mood friendly.

"Your education is an investment, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes starts, ever the business man, "And I expect a return on it," He finishes sternly.

The young man sits there silently, processing everything and realizing it may as well be a lost cause at present. "Very well," he states stiffly, rising from the table, "That's all I've ever been to you anyway." He adds quietly, leaving the room.

Sherlock had to clear his mind, unsure what to or where to go he existed the house to walk the property. He probably looked a sight, still clad in his pajamas with his dressing gown billowing out behind him. Striding purposefully as far from the house as possible he pulled out a cigarette from the pocket of the dressing gown and promptly lit it. His hands where trembling as he did his best to suppress everything that was flooding through him.

His eyes watered, but he kept his resolve as he powered through his first cigarette of the day. The over active mind trying to figure out away to get around all this, when it struck him; he could find what he wanted while still attending uni. It was simple really, he would take whatever classes he found interesting and go from there.

There was no deadline for when he had to finish and his parents would just be glad he was attending. The plan caused a small smirk to play at his lips as he finished the fag, choosing to ignore the Mycroft problem for now and headed back towards the house.

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	6. Extracurricular

The terrible weekend finally over, Sherlock returned to uni while Mycroft returned to his job in London. His team had already contacted and set up the proper channels in order to safely keep an eye on his younger brother, from a distance of course. The boys roommate Kenneth, proving to be an excellent source of information. It was really quite sad what infatuation and money can make someone do.

Sherlock continued on with his experiments, the 7 % solution coursing through his blood stream allowed him to work quickly at his tasks and opened his mind even more. All he had to do was stay the course of this semester, next semester would be better he told himself; having already picked out a melee of interesting classes.

He even signed up for a boxing class with Kenneth, which was a bit of an unfair advantage on his part considering he had some training as a lad. The fights where the perfect outlet for all his frustrations and started to become a weekly feature in his life. At first it was just to stave off the boredom in between down times, that is until he sparred with his roommate and found the adrenalin high wasn't so bad.

At first, Sherlock decided he didn't need the solution on days he would be fighting the neuro-chemicals produced seemed to be enough at first. Until his curiosity got the better of him; rationally he knew it would probably be dangerous, but the risks outweighed the rewards in his mind. Oh, and it was brilliant. Bringing everything more in focus he was able to anticipate everything, even more so then normal.

Needless to say, Mycroft was not pleased when this information was brought to his attention. He sat at his large walnut desk perusing the report tiredly. "What are you doing to yourself, brother?" He asked aloud, flipping over the page to see a close up of Sherlock's face mid fight. One consolation, Mycroft got from this was that it would appear that Sherlock was quite adept at boxing with his wins far outweighing the losses.

Regardless, a visit was in order. Mycroft's assistant made the necessary arrangements for a quick drop by on the way back from one of his meetings. He strode down the hall of his brother's dormitory like he was the dean himself in his three piece suite, umbrella in hand. Straightening himself up as he eyed the other people along the corridor with mild disdain, he stopped in front of the door and rapt on it with the handle of his umbrella.

A young man with green eyes, extremely fair hair, sharp nose and a weak jaw answered the door, gazing slightly up at Mycroft. "Um…yes?" He asked wearily, "Can I help you?"

"Kenneth isn't it?" Mycroft inquired politely, "I'm sorry to intrude; I'm looking for my brother."

Realization dawned on the jumbled features, as a large smile spread across his face, "Oh, you're Sherlock's brother, Mycroft." He extends a hand warmly.

Mycroft shakes it firmly, abhorring the formalities of dictated politeness, "Quite right," he nods peering into the room and noticing his brother isn't around.

"You caught him between times, I'm afraid," Kenneth informs him, glancing at his watch, "I reckon he'll be back in a tick, then again he's not the most predictable of creatures," he chuckles mildly, Mycroft reading the young man like an open book.

As if on cue, Sherlock comes around the corner striding quickly down the hall. Mycroft turns following Ken's gaze, "Speak of the devil," Kenneth breathes airily.

Sherlock clearly just got back from sparing, sweat clinging to his dark curls his hands still taped up and his shirt completely missing. He lifts his head as he approaches, schooling his features in order to promptly ignore his brother.

"What are you doing here?" He asks pushing past the two men in order to enter his room.

"Just checking in," Mycroft replies, entering the messy dorm.

"I'll leave ya to it, then." Kenneth offers awkwardly.

"So nice meeting you, Kenneth," Mycroft waves him off, not bothering to look at the kid.

"Right," he nods closing the door after his retreat.

Sherlock continues to ignore the older man, ripping the tape off his hands viciously. "He's quite enamored by you," Mycroft informs him, leaning on his umbrella.

"Obvious…" Sherlock huffs out, using his teeth to aid in the struggle to free his hands, "A blind person could see that."

"No interest then?" He questions knowingly, receiving a look from his younger relative.

"Let's just cut to the chase, 'Croft." He throws the removed tape aimlessly at the bin

"Very well," Mycroft concedes, investigating the desk top with a critical eye, "How's the experiment going… this new extracurricular apart of it?"

"What if it is?" Sherlock shoots, procuring his kit, knowing full well that using in front of Mycroft would deal a well aimed blow.

"I take it, Kenneth is none the wiser?"

The younger boy scoffs, tying the tunicate on his upper arm and positioning the prepared syringe. "I could shoot up in front of him and he'd probably ask to help."

Mycroft poignantly looks elsewhere while his brother administers the drug, the tiny marks along the pale forearm not escaping his notice. "You're increasing the usage." He states nonchalantly, pulling out his P.D.A, sending a memo to inform Kenneth of Sherlock's activity and increase the incentives to feed him up.

"There are new factors; I won't bore you with the details." Sherlock returns everything to the case, untangling himself from the bed.

"You've lost weight," He adds, seeing every bone and muscle under the taught skin.

"You're gaining," the younger man jibes, rustling about the papers on his desk. "As fun as this, I do have school work to see to," he sits at the desk with his back to the other man.

"I thought we could have dinner?" Mycroft offers coolly.

"Unavailable," He tells him curtly, "I'm do at the lab."

"Very well," Mycroft nods, his jaw squared. "Don't forget our arrangement," he reminds, placing his hand on his brother's slender shoulder and squeezing it gently; the action causing the younger man to stiffen in response. "Oh, and I'm sure Mummy would love to hear from you," he adds before sweeping from the room.

As soon as the door is closed, a loud thunk is heard, Sherlock clearly tossing a text at the door after his pompous brother.

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	7. Heart Problems

Despite unfair assumptions and oblivious dispositions, Sherlock was by no means a virgin. He was far too curious for that, but was disinterested in any romantic entanglements and relied solely on parties to collect the necessary data from both sexes. To him everything was fairly fluid; nothing was ever strictly black and especially something as trivial as orientation.

It was another late night in the lab, when Sherlock met what was soon to be another one of his distractions. Sebastian was an accounting student; chemistry was just required course he was struggling with. He was redoing an assigned lab, unsuccessfully if the cursing was anything to go by. Sherlock would often forgo sleep in order to mess about in the laboratories. He had charmed the teachers into allowing him access to everything, it was quite simple really. He was working late when the struggling boy annoyed his peace.

"You're doing it wrong," Sherlock stated indifferently, not even looking up from his microscope.

"Am, I," Sebastian snapped defensively, "This is rubbish anyway."

"Just follow the bullet points," He switches sides, "If you do it in order, you'll get the desired result."

"I have no clue what I'm bloody doing," the other boy sighs, "What bullet points?"

Sherlock sighs weightily, standing up briskly, "These," he points harshly to the page in the work book. "Perhaps if you didn't waste your nights talking to that girl, who's obviously cheating on you, you'd be able to stay awake in lecture." He observes

The other boy fails to hide the surprise on his face at the revelation. "Go on then, if you're so clever," Sebastian taunts with a smirk, crossing his arms.

"This is your work, not mine." He moves to turn on his heel, when a firm grip take hold of his slender forearm.

"Come on, can't we arrange something?"

Sherlock's skin crawled at the smarmy quality the other boys voice took on, but the contact itself was so craved that he ignored the warnings his rational mind was giving him. That's how the whole thing had begun, he would help Sebastian with his chemistry and they'd fuck. There was hardly a spot on the campus they hadn't had some sort of seedy tryst at odd hours of the night.

Seb could be quite charming when he wanted to be; at least he started off that way. Sherlock wouldn't admit, but he was actually entertaining the idea of them being a couple. As boring and pedestrian as it was, he found he wouldn't really mind going to the movies and other such things. That was until it the other boy clearly laid it out that this was just a fun thing to enjoy while it lasts.

That's what Sherlock did, he squashed any feelings that could have ever developed and clinically went along for the ride. Two months it continued, Sherlock was starting to get bored and Seb was becoming demanding. It was getting to the point he was high, every time they hooked up, so he decided it was time to call it quits.

The two boys were walking back from the labs at two in the morning, Sherlock smoking in silence as Sebastian took his hand. Cool eyes, moved from their joint hands to the other boys eyes, analytically.

"What's up with?" Seb asks, "You've been oddly silent."

"I'm thinking," is the curly haired boys, pensive reply.

"It's not just today…" He states awkwardly, "I've been doing a bit of thinking too…"

"Oh?" Sherlock questions, exhaling smoke.

"What would you say if we gave this a go?" Seb wonders aloud, stopping and studying their hands.

"This?" He stared at the other boy in disbelief, before stubbing out his cigarette.

"Ya, you and me…A proper relationship."

Sherlock eyes the other kid critically, taking everything in as he internally scoffs. "No." He retracts his hand.

"No?"

"No, this has been fun and all… really," he stresses, his tone even and emotionless. "But we agreed that's all this was."

"Yeah, well things change, I mean I really like you and…" Seb flounders, the whole situation going vastly different then he thought it would.

"The only feelings I have for you are friendship," Sherlock informs him, "I can't do this." He turns to walk away.

Sebastian stops him, grabbing his upper arm, "Why not?" He asks haughtily, confusion turning to anger. "I deserve an answer," he demands, searching Sherlock eyes.

"I…" he starts, trying to organize his thoughts and interpret what exactly he's thinking or feeling. "I don't know…" Sherlock admits quietly, looking at the ground. "It just wouldn't work… sorry." He dislodges his arm from the other boys grasp and starts to walk hurriedly away.

"That's not a reason, Sherlock!" Seb calls angrily after him, "Ya, sod off you bloody robot!"

Sherlock turns the corner and breaks off into a run, logically his reaction made sense. They stated the perimeters of the relationship at the beginning, so he resigned himself to the fact that that was how it was to remain. He never took into account feelings, having evaporated any that could have possibly surfaced at the beginning of all this.

The dorm is eerily quiet at this hour, as he ignores the silence and slams into his room. Kenneth wakes with a start, having fallen asleep with the telly on. Sherlock leans heavily on the door, sliding down to the floor and resting his head on his bent knees, trying his damndest to just erase it all. There was reason for him to feel anything about this, he rationalized.

"You alright, mate?" Ken asks worriedly from his bed.

"Shut up," Sherlock snaps, the boy instantly falling silent. Sherlock's mind still racing, he can feel his roommates eyes still on him, "I said shut up!" He yells again, rising to his feet. He rummages through his things, finding his kit and playing with it as he internally debates. He paces slightly before hopping to his feet to use it in the in suite toilet, slamming the door harshly behind him.

He emerges ten minutes later, Kenneth eyeing cautiously, it's clear that the Sherlock is still amped up for some reason.

"You can talk to me ya know," Ken offers awkwardly, flinching in anticipation of another outburst. "I can't promise I can help, but I'll try."

"Help," Sherlock glares at him, "You want to help, me?"

Kenneth shrugs, "If you need it."

"What I need…" Sherlock starts darkly, a manic edge to him, "Is for you to either shut up, or to punch something… so unless you care to fight me…"

"I'm not going to fight ya, mate." He chuckles slightly.

"No of course not, because you care."

"Yea, I reckon I do…" Ken gets off his bed to unsure of what to do, "What are you insinuating, mate?"

"I'm not your mate!" Sherlock snaps, unfairly, getting into the other boys face. "I admit your attraction to me is quite useful at times, but…" He scrutinizes the dull person before him, his lips curling as he realizes the information he'd been missing. "Oh, that's it then isn't it?"

"What?" Kenneth starts, frowning.

"How much is he paying you?" He accuses, "Or is it the chance to just be near me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He shoots back his patience wearing thin.

"Don't lie!" Sherlock bellows, pushing the other boy. "You're spying on me for him!" He breathes, getting right in Ken's face. "That's why you try to offer distractions and food, it's obvious…"

"It's because I like you, ok!" Ken shouts back, their eyes liked angrily. Then Ken does something uncharacteristically impulsive and pulls Sherlock to him in a harsh kiss.

Sherlock is as dumb struck as he is unresponsive; he never thought in his twenty years that Kenneth would do something so rash and so blatantly unwelcome. Everything clicking back to reality, he pushes his roommate harshly away from him and dramatically wipes his mouth. "You're pathetic," he sneers in disdain before exiting the room.

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	8. Dinner

AN: Thanks for feed back, guys... keep it up! :)

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><p>After storming back outside, Sherlock lights another cigarette and pulls is Jacket tighter against the brisk night. He's clearly still amped up, and now has nowhere to go at 3 in the morning on Wednesday. He shuffles from foot to foot before picking a random direction and heading off into the darkness.<p>

Mycroft's out of the country when one of his people delivers the report, during a break between negotiations. He excuses himself to an adjoining room where he can properly peruse the file the report, sinking into the chair as soon as he opens it. They are pictures of Sherlock, one of him being thrown out of a pub and the other of him tucked tightly around himself on a park bench.

The second picture is the one that makes Mycroft want to forget the meeting and be on the first flight back home, but he knows it's impossible. Sherlock looks so small and it's too reminiscent of when they were children and Sherlock was upset. He read the type up of the events, discovering that Sherlock was kicked out of the pub after brawling and then spent the rest of the night on the park bench. Turning the page, he then read the email from Kenneth explaining the row that ensued before the pub. The last page showed Sherlock walking hand in hand with another boy about his age.

Sighing audibly he closed the folder, and headed back to the main floor where Mycroft was greeted by his assistant, "Make sure the content is in chronological order next time," he orders the young woman. "Also, increase surveillance I want to know the moment anything happens, understood?" The girl nods, taking the report and following him back into board room.

As the first dregs of light begin to paint the sky, Sherlock unfolds his long frame from the bench to head back to the dorm. His body protesting vaguely at the movements, the fight and the cold making his body stiff; getting back to the room he realizes the doors locked and he doesn't have his key. He thunks his head on the wood door at that realization, sighing dramatically as he sits against the door frame.

The coldness had settled in his chest, and it's more than just the temperature. Sherlock couldn't help, but hope that Kenneth would forget about last night. Rationally he knew that was just wishful thinking, his living arrangement was going to be awkward at best now. It's funny how you go from having things, to having nothing all in the span of a couple hours.

Sherlock dozes a bit, oblivious to the looks from the blokes heading off to class or breakfast. He's startled awake, when the door at his back is opened and his roommate nearly tripping over him.

"Christ," Kenneth swears, composing himself before helping Sherlock to his feet. "Look, I'm sorry about last night…" He flounders, trying to at least remedy the living situation.

Sherlock keeps his eyes glued to the floor as he nods, slipping into the room as Kenneth heads off to class. After showering, staying under the hot spray for what felt like hours, he slips on his sleep pants and crawls into bed. Kenneth comes back around lunch time, Sherlock still absently playing his instrument. He drops off some food hoping the other boy will actually eat it, and then leaves again letting him alone.

Time gets away from the dark haired young man, barley noticing it's passed save for the now diminishing light. Finally moving from his curled position to take up his violin, he closes his eyes and quiets his mind to allow the music to flow out; expressing everything he's unable to. Expelling everything he internalizes.

The room door opens, Sherlock not even turning to look as he assumes it's just Kenneth and continues playing.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice cuts through the somber notes. The music stopping instantaneously has the younger man turns. Sherlock looks a sight; his hair a mess, with the blossoming of a bruise around his eye and unacknowledged tears staining his jaunt face. "We're getting dinner," he states, leaving no room for protestations.

Donning his dressing gown, the brothers make their way down stairs to the practically empty dinning area. Mycroft instructing his brother to get a table as he gets the food using Sherlock's food card. Minutes later, he places a tray piled with various food items in front of his brother as he takes a seat across from him. Mycroft sits back, crossing his legs as he sits expectantly.

"I have all night Sherlock," he drawls, "Now, eat something."

Sherlock frowns at the food before starting to pick at the pasta and garlic bread, "Why are you here?" He asks before sipping his beverage.

"You know why," Mycroft gives him a look before dropping the report on the table, "Care to explain?"

The younger man flips open the document and quickly peruses it, "It's nothing, you don't need to spy on me."

"Of course," he shakes his head, "Thinking of becoming a member of the homeless?" He turns to the picture of Sherlock on the park bench.

"I had a row," Sherlock shrugs, "Why are you paying my roommate to spy on me?" He snaps.

"He was happy to do it," Mycroft informs him airily, "It's amazing what sentiment causes people to do." He watches his brother to make sure he's still eating "Can't imagine why he fancies you…though maybe that's changed."

"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" Sherlock asks quietly, not looking up from the table.

Mycroft's internally taken aback at his brother soft inquiry, "Of course not, Sherlock." He dismisses it, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

The younger man simply shrugs his sharp shoulders, twirling the spaghetti on his fork with mild interest, "Dunno."

"This, have to do with that boy?" He wonders gently.

Sherlock snaps to attention, a cold look on his face, "Don't be ridiculous."

Mycroft scrutinizes his brother for a beat, "Another experiment, I see," he sighs. "Glad to see you aren't high today," he smirks conversationally, "Christmas is fast approaching after all."

"I'm not addicted, 'Croft."

"The evidence is starting to prove otherwise, brother," He informs him with warning edge to his tone.

"I know what I'm doing," Sherlock grits out.

"We shall see," Mycroft checks the time on his pocket watch, "Now eat the rest of you pasta, Sherly."

"Only if you eat this," Sherlock smirks, placing the piece of chocolate cake in front of his brother.

"Grow up," he rolls his eyes.

"Not on your diet is it," he sits back in his chair, "Pasta's not mine, so…"

"Fine," Mycroft snaps, grabbing the fork and earning a smirk from his brother, "As long as it gets you to eat," he adds as they eat in silence.

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	9. Pawn

AN: Thank you so much for the great reviews... keep it up! :)

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><p>After Mycroft's visit, Sherlock tried to make somewhat of an effort. Things with Kenneth were still a bit strained; but he was actually eating, at least when he remembered to, and refrained from his solution unless strictly necessary. It was as though he decided that since he couldn't control every aspect of his life, he'd control what he could. This new plan worked well too, for a couple weeks; that is until it seemed necessary to use more often than not.<p>

Sherlock was more careful now however, knowing that he was still being watched. He refrained from fighting outside of boxing and removed himself from social situations. The latter was more as a preemptive measure, his observations tended to cause trouble so it was best to just avoid. In his mind he rationalized his actions as binging, the last hurrah before the Holiday deadline that was quickly becoming only days away.

It was an exceptionally cold day and dreary day, Sherlock deciding to forgo his classes for the warmth of his dormitory. He was sat on the bed, his one knee tucked against his chest and the needle poised between his toes in order to compare the speed of which it would take effect and in order to allow the marks on his arms to fade for Christmas. That's when Kenneth walked in, their eyes meeting as Sherlock quirked his brow and continued to inject the poison as if daring the other boy to stop him.

Kenneth says nothing, shuffling about his side of the room with his sac and switching out text books. Sherlock watching him briefly, reading the tension in his shoulders when a horrible idea flutters through his mind. Wondering idly what it would take to make feel guilty enough to switch to his side over his brother's then maybe be able to gain access to said money; the thoughts come to halt when the fair haired boy reels on him.

"We need talk," Ken states, resolutely.

"Oh?" Sherlock eyes him with disinterest.

The other boy shuffles nervously before decidedly sitting next to Sherlock on the bed, "Look, I know things have been awkward and all…" he starts trying to un-jumble his thoughts, Sherlock watching him, wondering what it's like in his stupid mind. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" He asks earnestly.

"It's an experiment," he offers, drawing his other leg up to hug them to his body, not noticing that he starts to rock slightly as the drug kicks in. He idly wonders why people can't leave him well enough alone.

"An experiment?" Ken questions in confusion.

"It'll be over after Christmas holiday, Ken…"

"Oh, right," he nods, clearly not really getting it, "Look, I still like you, yeah…" Kenneth bravely admits. "It's fine if you don't or nothing, but I'm here and I only took your brother's offer because I wanted to help." He shrugs, clearly struggling, "The money's pointless… hell I wish my family cared that much about me…" Ken shakes his head, "But I'll stop, if ya want me to."

Sherlock quietly takes in the new data, dissecting each statement and the possible implications before reaching an answer, "It's fine, Ken," he peaks over his knees at the boy and catching the brief relief, "I'd rather it be you keeping an eye me, I mean, you have met my brother." He smirks a bit in jest.

"Yeah, pompous sod that one," Ken jokes, smiling openly.

"That thing you offered, though…" Sherlock starts, trying his hand to make sure all the pieces would be in place, "It was good."

"No problem, mate," he offers warmly, moving to get off the bed, Sherlock quickly stopping him and placing a brief kiss on his cheek. Kenneth sits back down mildly dumb struck as Sherlock slinks off to the bathroom.

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	10. Holiday

AN: Thank you so much for the great reviews... :) (Also heads up for later chapter, there will be more then just drug use.. hence the rating. Fair warning)

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><p>It's the last day of classes, Sherlock's packing for home and every fiber of his being is dreading it. There's nothing to do or anywhere to go and he'll have to deal with annoying relatives. He's zipping up his sac, slipping his kit in the breast pocket of his jacket and does a cursory glance around the room. Kenneth comes out of the toilet, fresh out of the shower.<p>

"Ya going home today?" He asks, receiving a nod. "Any plans over break?"

"Beside boredom… no," Sherlock sighs.

"Well, give me a ring if ya wanta do something for new years," Ken offers, with a big smile, "I mean seeing as we don't live to far from one another and all."

"We'll see," the dark haired boy agrees, shrugging into his coat and shouldering his bag.

"Happy Christmas," Kenneth bids him, earning a wave as Sherlock flourishes out of the door.

The cab ride is long and tedious, Sherlock idly drumming his finger on his knee trying to dispel energy. Usually the towne car is sent to collect him, but he didn't want to deal with home any sooner than he had to. It seemed like ages before the cab pulled up to the front of the property, Sherlock paying quickly and nearly forgetting his luggage in his haste to be out of the small confides of the auto.

Sherlock bursts into the house, Madame Holmes already coming down the hall to greet him like she had a six sense. "Oh, mon cher!" She smiles warmly, embracing her youngest.

"Mummy," Sherlock returns the embrace briefly before pulling away.

"I see you've been busy," She admonishes, commenting on how thin he has gotten. "How'd you get this?" She grasps his chin, turning his face to examine the laceration on his cheek.

"It's nothing," He makes a face pulling away, "Just a new hobby."

"Oh that boxing lark," Madame Holmes shakes her head turning to head into the house, Sherlock following, "Mycroft mentioned it, I do wish you'd find something less violent to occupy your free time." She pushes into the kitchen, where Sylvia is unloading groceries.

"Hullo dear," Sylvia greets him pleasantly, "Would you like a snack?"

"No thank you, Sylvia," Sherlock nods.

"I think a sandwich is in order," Madame Holmes disregards her son's answer. "I know you didn't eat breakfast, Sherlock Holmes," She knowingly chides, helping to put away the groceries while Sylvia makes him a small sandwich; Sherlock taking up a seat at the kitchen counter.

"Things going well at uni?" Sylvia questions absently.

"Its fine," he answers flippantly.

"Come now," Madame Holmes, looks at him, "You have to be taking some interesting courses."

"Yes, my independent studies are very informative," Sherlock smirks slightly, "I've been doing some tests with hemoglobin and…"

"That's nice dear," his mother hums, moving about the kitchen. Sylvia places the sandwich in front of him, patting his arm reassuringly. "Oh before I forget Sylvia, we need to make sure there's juice without red dye and that everything that has nuts in it is clearly labeled at the party."

"Of course," Sylvia nods taking note.

"Fancy's coming then," he states, picking bits of his sandwich. Fancy was definitely his least favorite second cousins, but then again he didn't care much for any of his relatives.

"Yes, and she's got a new boy, bless her," Madame Holmes shakes her head, "So play nice."

"Tell her that," Sherlock huffs looking down at his dismantled food, remembering all the times she tormented him with her idiocy.

"You feeling alright, cher?" She asks him, worry creasing her brow as she places a cool hand on his forehead. "You look a bit peaky."

"I'm alright, Mummy."

"Perhaps a nap, then," She offers, Sherlock nodding wanting alone time anyway as he rises from his chair. "Oh, and remember, the party is in a week so I expect you to clean that mess of a room."

"When's 'Croft coming?" He asks wearily.

"He should be up the night before or so, he's terribly busy, you know."

That week Sherlock uses the majority of his solution, saving a dosage or two as an emergency backup. His parent's are oblivious as usual, if not pleased at his energy and willingness to help out. It's really because there's nothing to do but the endless list of chores and preparations his mum outlined for the party.

Mycroft shows up extra early on Thursday, a day before the party, just as predicted. The day had already been torture for Sherlock, the come down was a hard one this time; but he was resolute to prove he didn't need it and this was the way to do it.

"Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked Mummy as they ate their breakfast.

"Still sleeping, he wasn't feeling well last night," She replies, sipping her tea, "I do hope it's nothing, it'd be a shame for him to miss the festivities."

Mycroft simply nods, knowing full well that Sherlock not attending would be seen as a small victory in his brother's eyes. After eating he wanders upstairs to check on his brother. "Sherlock?" he gently raps on the door before trying the handle and letting himself in.

The room is dark, the thick curtains pulled tight against any light that would penetrate and there was a slight figure curled tight in the duvet. Sherlock's breathing loudly as he holds onto himself, tremors running through him.

"Sherly?" He calls softly.

"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sherlock tries to snap at him, but it comes out breathily.

"It's finished, then?"

"Mhmm," he replies, burrowing further under the covers as his body trembles again.

"Excellent," Mycroft smiles a bit, a bit pleased, despite the evident distress his brother's facing currently. "I'll have some tea brought up," he nods as he slips out of the room.

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	11. Party

AN: Just an FYI, as I don't know from experience, all the drug stuff is from internet research etc so...

Thanks Enjoy!

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><p>Sherlock was physically doing better the next day, but his thoughts were not over pleasant. Mycroft slept, enjoying his time off and getting enough rest to be prepared for the party that evening. When he came down for breakfast around 10, Mummy and Sherlock where at the table eating and sharing the news paper, "Morning," he greets, shuffling to his seat.<p>

"Morning, brolly," She greets from her newspaper, Sherlock not evening acknowledging the presences. "Sleep well?" She asks, folding the paper to talk to her eldest.

"Quite," Mycroft nods, observing his brother across the table.

"He's having one of his fits," Madame Holmes dismisses, "Hasn't spoken a peep all morning," she shakes her head. The silence isn't that surprising, Sherlock could go days without talking and indeed had when they were growing up.

"At least he's eating," he offers, noticing the empty plate.

"This better end before tonight," She calls sternly as if Sherlock was deaf, receiving an annoyed cough as Sherlock adjusts the paper.

Sylvia bustles into the room, "Madame, the set up people are here."

"Thank you, Sylvia," She nods. "So, much to do…See if you can talk to him," She asks Mycroft, rising from her seat and sweeping out of the room.

"I do hope you're feeling better, Sherly," Mycroft starts feigning disinterest, taking a bite of his food. Sherlock nods slightly in reply, as he remains silent. "I know it takes more than a day to fully leave the system," he begins; glancing over the bit of paper mummy had left on the table. "But I'm sure you can handle it, I'd recommend not over doing it tonight, however." He looks over at his brother.

The younger man narrows his eyes as he looks over the table as if to say leave me alone, I can take care of myself.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," Mycroft admonishes, "You may have little regard for your body, but you should at least know its limits. I hardly think drinking while detoxing is a good idea."

Sherlock remains silent, folding the paper as he slides his chair out from the table and rising to his feet. He rips the paper in half and tosses the pieces on the table in front of his brother before storming out of the room.

"Mature as ever, brother," The older man calls after him in dismay.

Sherlock sullenly came out of his silence about an hour before guests where do to arrive, but only spoke when strictly necessary. Currently he was loudly complaining about the irrelevance of flower placements, mummy ignoring the logical side of his argument for what she thought was best. Unfortunately, Auntie Vie chose that time to arrive since she was staying for Christmas.

Mycroft greeted her at the door, the bellowing of Mummy and Sherlock carrying throughout the house. "My apologies," he states sincerely.

"Pas du tout," she dismiss, giving him a fond hug. "I always have bad timing, story of my life," Vie smiles, as Mycroft takes her luggage.

He reluctantly leads her into the converted parlor and living room, where the apex of the noise is; before escaping to take her bag up to the guest room.

"I don't care if it makes sense young man," Madame Holmes shrilly informs him, "That's where it's going, now do as you're told!"

"Move it yourself," Sherlock snaps, dramatically flopping into the powder blue high back chair next to the sofa, his long legs stretched in front of him and his arms crossed.

"Sherlock Holmes you move your lazy…" Madame Holmes' retort died on her lips when she saw her sister, forgetting the fight to properly greet Auntie Vie in French.

"How are you raising these boys?" Auntie Vie, jests, "My own little nephew will not greet his dear tata?" The boy in question remains immobile.

"Sherlock!" His mother scolds, as he stubbornly refuses to move or acknowledge them, "I do apologize for this one," she sighs. "He's been in a tizzy all day, didn't speak until ten minutes ago and I think I quite preferred that," She shot at him.

"C'est la vie," Vie shrugs congenially.

"I have half a mind to lock him in his room for the entire party," Madame Holmes informs her sister, Sherlock smirking slightly at that prospect, "Don't get your hopes up," She warns her son, his face falling as he pouts.

"It's still good to see you, cher," Auntie Vie ruffles his hair affectionately as the sisters exit the room for tea.

The party is ten minutes in, guests still arriving, a steady stream of both family and their parents work colleagues. Mycroft is, as always, being the perfect gentlemen and assisting mummy with host duties, taking coats and greeting all the guests; while Sherlock sulks in the corner with a flute of champagne. He's on his third or fourth glass when Fancy saddles up to him.

"Oh, Small-Lock, so good to see you," She grins mischievously.

"That nickname is hardly appropriate anymore," he coolly replies, not even bothering to look at her.

"Height wise, no, I suppose not," She shakes her head, her light brown fringe falling into her green eyes. "What do you weight, now? 6…7 stones," She tsks. "I suppose Myc' still steels all your food…"

"Is that really relevant, Fatsy," Sherlock insults back flippantly downing is champagne as if doing so will make her more tolerable.

"Whatever," she huffs, crossing her pudgy arms, "What ya think of my new boy toy?" Fancy asks with a giggle. "He's over there with mum," She points.

"You're referring to the bloke you hired as your escort?" He smirks, looking at the fairly good looking man. "He's quite fit."

"I…I didn't hire him," Fancy stutters.

"Don't be dull, Fancy," Sherlock scolds, "He's clearly out of your league, and quite disinterested."

"What you on about?" She asks angrily, "I met him in an advert."

"Of course you did…" He breathes, before speaking lowly for her alone to hear, "Though it didn't cost a thing when I took him in the coat closet…" He pauses watching her reaction at the lie he just told, grant it she did hire him, "I suppose that's not part of the package then?" Sherlock smirks before excusing himself.

Mycroft's standing at the bar, absently watching the exchange his brother had with Fancy, when Vie appears at his elbow. "What you looking at?" She asks, following his gaze.

"Hmm," he hums, turning his attention to her, "Oh, it's nothing… nothing at all."

Vie fixes him with a look, "You're worried about him," she states poignantly. "You don't have to tell me," she holds up a hand to stop his rebuttal. "It's more obvious then you think, Mycroft," She pats his arm, "Just remember, burdens are meant to be shared, it does not make you a bad brother if you have to ask for help."

Mycroft stares at her for a beat, wondering how obvious his concern had been and how she picked up on it, "Thank you, Vie," he smiles.

"Now come and dance with your old maid auntie," She jokes, pulling him to the dance floor.

Sherlock procured more champagne on his way outside to have a cigarette. He stayed in the shadows keeping away from the fairy lights that where set up on the terrace, incase guests wanted fresh air. He vaguely wished he'd remembered his coat before venturing out, but then took solace in the fact that he could catch his death in the chilly December air.

The party was horrible, he disliked most of the people there and the stupid questions they all asked; being polite was as boring as the same questions asked over and over again. He rubbed his temples the champagne giving him a headache, chain smoking in the darkness and contemplating if he could slip upstairs unnoticed. He was startled out of his thoughts when someone burst out onto the terrace.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you out here?" The unmistakable shrillness of Fancy's voice called into the night. He was quite content to ignore the cow, watching as he took another drag, her escort joining her out side. "Sherlock bloody Holmes, you better show yourself!" She threatened as the man tried to calm her.

"Or what?" He answered haughtily, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Get out of the shadows, freak!" Fancy snaps.

Sherlock sighs, flicking the fag at her feet as he steps into the light. "Yes?"

"Go on, Pete," She grabs the other man's arm, pulling him to the forefront.

"So you're the bloke, who upset my dear Fancy?" Pete sizes him up.

"Oh, you are good," Sherlock smirks, "She paying you extra to defend her honor?" He rolls his shoulders preparing himself, "As questionable as that is…" he adds, briefly wondering how he didn't realize just how tipsy he actually was.

"Come on mate, I wouldn't mind having a go at you," Pete says in ire as his stance becomes defensive, but smiling salaciously at the double meaning behind his words.

"I'm sure the underlying option is much more interesting," he shakes his head.

"Get on with it," Fancy huffs, "Put the sod in his place!" She orders.

As soon as she speaks the door to the terrace is thrown open, "What's going on here?" Mycroft questions with a raised eyebrow.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Pete sucker punches Sherlock across the jaw sending him reeling to the ground. "Christ," Sherlock swears as he's caught off guard.

Mycroft is at his brother's side, gripping his arm and making sure he's ok, before rising to his full height. "I think it's time for you to leave," He informs them sternly.

"Oh, come off it Mycroft," Fancy snaps, pushing her luck even more.

"This is hardly appropriate behavior in any circumstance, now if you do not leave I will have you escorted out," he threatens with a cold glare, "The choice is entirely yours."

Pete backs off at the look, his hands up in surrender, "I'm gone, mate." He assures, fleeing the scene.

"Pete, wait!" Fancy calls after him, pouting like a child before trotting after him.

"That's why you don't hire rent boys as escorts," Mycroft shakes his head as he helps Sherlock to his unsteady feet. "Come on let's get you some ice," he guides his brother back toward the door.

Sherlock shrugs of Mycroft's grip, "I got it, 'Croft," he snaps striding purposefully towards the kitchen.

Mycroft gets delayed by some business associates of their father's, and gets to the kitchen a good ten minutes after Sherlock slunk off. He finds the younger man perched on the stool at the counter Sylvia forcing him to hold the ice on his face, as he fusses.

"Leave me be, woman," Sherlock huffs.

"I'll take care of it, Sylvia," Mycroft smiles reassuringly at the woman.

"Better you than me," She shakes her head, leaving the room.

"What happened?" He sits next to his brother, making sure the ice stays firmly held in place before making his brother hold it himself.

"Fancy was being an idiot, with her hired man," Sherlock offered sullenly, "I'm sure you could deduce it."

"Yes, well, I doubt she was solely to blame here."

"Right, take her side…"

"Sherlock," Mycroft rolls his eyes, then decides to switch gears, "I thought you knew how to box?"

"Cheap shots, don't count," Sherlock breathes, lowering the ice as him mother bursts into the kitchen.

"What's this I hear about fighting?" Madame Holmes wonders expectantly, her hands on her hips. Sherlock moves to explain when he's promptly cut off, "You know what I don't want to hear it, you're moody all day then sulk in the corner all evening and now this…" she motions in exasperation. "You're lucky no one saw and I'm sure you have your brother to thank for that," Her expression is hard.

"It wasn't my fault," Sherlock protest, defending himself, "Fancy…"

"I can't deal with you right now, Sherlock, you're an adult it's about time you acted as such," She snaps, "Go to your room this instant, you're no longer welcome at the party." Madame Holmes points for him to march out, "Your father and I are very disappointed in your behavior," she adds superiorly.

"I didn't do anything, you stupid cow!" Sherlock roars irately throwing the ice across the kitchen at the wall, ice skidding everywhere as he stomps out of the room to go upstairs; Mycroft and mummy standing there in shock at his outburst.

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	12. Empty

Sherlock barricades himself in his room making sure the door is locked and whipping off his blazer, he's furious and his head is throbbing from more than just the champagne. He paces back and forth, taking his frustrations out on the items in his room; throwing stuff off his desk and knocking things over. Clearly not carrying if he makes a racket, not like they could really hear him over the music; he pauses briefly as a wave of nausea hits sending him off to the toilet.

After expelling the contents of his stomach he downs a glass of water and sits on the cool tiled floor. Sherlock contemplates prying up the floor board where he hid the last couple hits, but resolves not to. He's not addicted, and this will just drive the point home to his brother and in a week's time Mycroft will be back in London anyway.

Slowly he sinks to the floor relishing the cool feeling against his heated flesh as he curls up, hugging himself tightly. A part of him wishes someone would come check on him hold him even, tell him it would be alright; but he dismisses it, knowing full well no one's coming. It's not a new realization, though it hurts all the same. The exhaustion take over as he breaks drown fully, slipping into unconsciousness.

The next morning he's awakened by pounding on his bedroom door, the pounding seeming to match the headache that's still plaguing him as he groans on the bathroom floor.

"Sherlock, open the damn door." His father's voice bellows from the bedroom door to the en suite. "I'm giving you one more chance, young man." He warns.

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly against the noise, willing his father to just leave as he shivers slightly. There's a small click as the lock on the door is opened with the seldom used skeleton key, his father storming into the room, and taking in the messy state of it. "Sherlock," he calls not seeing the boy.

"Go away," he answers weakly from the floor, alerting his father to his location.

Mr. Holmes takes in the sight of his son, jumping to the only conclusion that would make sense. "You're hung over," he accuses. "You ruined your mother's evening because you where drunk," he roars, before wetting a flannel and tossing at his son roughly. "Clean yourself up," he orders, "I want to see you in my office in half an hour." With that he stormed back out of the room.

Sherlock slowly presses the flannel to his face, willing himself to get to his feet as his head throbs and the room spins. He uses the sink to pull himself up unsteadily, checking the time before taking a quick shower; promptly arriving in his father's office a half hour later, as requested. He has to wait of course, no surprise there, as he contemplates escape plans. The main plan he finds himself leaning towards is taking his father's letter opener and severing the carotid artery; or the less messy option of using the curtains for old fashioned hanging.

Mr. Holmes strides in right when Sherlock was about convinced to take action, halting all possible endeavors. "What's the matter with you," He asks rhetorically, crossing to the other side of his desk. "You made your mother cry with your blatant disregard for propriety," he informs his son. "You are rude and haughty, and frankly ungrateful." He sighs heavily, "Lord knows where we went wrong with you." Sherlock internally scoffs, realizing too late that it actually slipped out of him.

"You think this is funny?" His father's eyes blaze, "I have half a mind to cancel Christmas," He admits loudly, "But your mother would have none of that." Mr. Holmes inhales sharply, "You're towing the line here, Sherlock, I want you on your best behavior for the rest of holiday you understand me?"

Sherlock nods stiffly, frozen momentarily before rasping out a, "Yes sir."

"Good, now I want you to find your mother and beg her forgiveness," He coldly states, "Sorry is not going to cut it, I'm talking a full fledge apology." He nods, waiting expectantly, "Off you go, then."

The young man stumbles to his feet, traipsing off to find his mother. The whole situation was completely fucked up, he thought. There's no point in apologizing for something that was hardly his fault. Sullenly, he shuffles down the hall to find the woman. Madame Holmes is in the kitchen having tea with Auntie Vie the two women speaking quietly in french, Sherlock pausing outside of the door to eavesdrop.

"Is he doing well at uni?" Auntie Vie asks concern evident in her tone.

"He seems to be doing well; you know how clever he is," Madame Holmes sighs. "He wanted to drop out."

"Really?"

"Mhm, said there was nothing left for him to learn."

"But you're making him finish," Vie realizes aloud.

"Of course we are," Madame Holmes admits, "Education is important, he just needs to find himself."

"Hmm…" Auntie Vie hums thoughtfully, Sherlock using this as his cue to enter. The women fall silent, Sherlock looking quite morose as he stands awkwardly by the kitchen table. "I'll leave you to it," Vie rises, squeezing Sherlock arm reassuringly before exiting the kitchen.

He clears his throat, not making eye contact, "I wish to apologize for my deplorable behavior last night," he grits out, every fiber of his being tensing at the ridiculousness of it.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

He does as he's told taking the seat closest to him, to the left of his mother. "I'm sorry to, cher," she admits taking his hand, "Your brother told me what happened and it was wrong of me to just assume." He squeezes his hand, "However, no matter how frustrated you may be your outburst was unacceptable, drunk or not." She says sternly, her tone causing Sherlock to look up at her.

"Yes ma'am," he breathes.

"Well in the spirit of the holiday…apology accepted," She smiles, pouring him some tea and placing a muffin on a plate for him. "I'm sure your father spoke to you about what will happen with another outburst like that." She adds knowingly, Sherlock picking at the muffin absently and nodding. Madame Holmes watching him thoughtfully for a beat, "You'd tell me if something was bothering you wouldn't you, cher?"

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums lost in thought, before her words catch up to him, "Of course mummy," he lies.

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	13. Excursion

Sherlock decides that the best course to take would be stoicism, speaking only when spoken to or when it was strictly necessary. He didn't have much energy for talking as it was, the continued detoxing still taking its toll and with the dark moods tightening their grip on him. It was two day before Christmas when Madame Holmes burst into her son's bedroom, and flinging open the heavy curtains.

"Rise and shine cher," She called to the lump on the bed that was her youngest.

"Is bright," The muffled reply came, as the form burrowed deeper into the duvet.

"The suns out and we're going Christmas shopping," his mother informs him pleasantly. "Now up you get."

Sherlock grumbles unintelligibly making no movement to do as he was told what so ever.

Madame Holmes sighs, "What happened to the young boy that used to wake with the sun and greet each new day?" She asks wistfully.

"I killed him," was Sherlock's muffled answer.

"Such a shame, I dearly miss him." She shakes her head, before resulting to pulling at the covers. "Do not fight, Sherlock," She warns, "We need to get an early start, it's tradition and you're keeping tata waiting." With only a mild struggle she gets the lithe, barley conscious figure up, shooing him off to the shower. Almost an hour later he's dressed and ready, makes his way down stairs to find the two women waiting.

"Where's Mycroft?" He asks, expecting the older man to be attending.

"He's having breakfast with your father, cher," Madame Holmes informs him, "Besides, he already finished his shopping."

"He's becoming an old man any way," Vie winks humorously, Sherlock not liking the implication that he's still just a young boy and therefore not welcomed in the men's club his father and brother seem to be a part of. "Oh, cheer up," Auntie Vie, takes his chin in her hands so he's no longer scowling at the ground. "Grumpiness will not be tolerated," she adds, "It's Christmas after all."

The three of them head to the car, Madame Holmes forcing Sherlock to drive. He knows it's her form of punishment for him begging to learn when he was younger, make sure the "skill" didn't go to waste. When they get to town they have breakfast at one of the cafes, Sherlock zoning out as the women prattle on while he waits for his coffee to take effect. His mind always had a habit of waking up way before his body did; he could barely remember the act of driving here.

Currently he wished he was back in his bed, he had no desire to celebrate the dull holiday, let alone procure useless gifts for his immediate family. Oddly enough, he wanted to be back at school. At least there he had freedom to do as he pleased without catching hell for any little misstep. Home was tedious and uneventful with no lab to sneak off to at night when he couldn't sleep.

It had been a long night; he'd smoked two whole packs out his window to quell the itching he had to use the solution. He couldn't even go out for a stroll without his parents asking inane questions about his whereabouts or having Mycroft waiting up for him. His thoughts swirled, as he stared at his arm on the café table; the itching was still present, but was accompanied by a strange urge to remove his own skin and expose the tendons underneath.

"Sherlock?" He's called out of his disturbing reprieve. "Care to join us, cher?" His mom smiles fondly at his old habit of obliviousness.

"Hmm," he hums, looking up from his arm slowly.

"You where miles away," Madame Holmes points out, "The foods arrived."

"Oh." Sherlock falls silent his attention turning to the food on his plate, idly wondering how he missed it being placed right in front of him before deciding it was a irrelevant.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Vie smiles, before taking a bite of her breakfast.

"Don't bother," Madame Holmes answers her sister's question, "You won't get an answer out of him anyway… I swear he'd live solely in his head if he could."

"If only," he agreed, his mother's last statement sparking Sherlock's interest; it would be something if he didn't have to deal with the external world. It would certainly eliminate all the unwanted social norms; he hardly took part of them as it was, but the prospect of them not existing was an exciting one.

"I'd imagine it would be extremely lonely," Vie offered knowingly.

"It is," Sherlock thinks to himself.

"Oh don't worry about Sherlock," his mum begins, "He's already resigned himself to living and dying alone, isn't that right?" She smirks, recalling a conversation they had many times in the past.

"I haven't resigned myself, mother," he states coolly, "It's a fact."

"Well call me a fool for hoping you're wrong," Madame Holmes shakes her head.

"You're a fool, then," Sherlock blurts, earning a stern look from his mother.

Luckily Auntie Vie is there to act as a buffer, chuckling warmly "Ah, Marion," she chuckles humorously, using her sister's name, "You've turned into mama."

"You're terrible," Madame Holmes happily scolds her sister as they continue their breakfast.

They exit the café, heading off to the shops down the road. Madame Holmes gives Sherlock a list and sends him off after the second store. The ploy is obvious, but he's happy to wonder alone. Making sure he's out of sight from mummy, he lights a cigarette and relishes it as he peruses the list. It came to him as no surprise that it was a detailed outline of just what to get his family, including tata.

Crushing the paper in his fist out of frustration, he quickly finishes his cigarettes toying with the idea of ignoring the list completely. He heads to the closest shop deciding to forgo the list and get whatever he wants to get for his family and hoping he can do it all at one shop. The mission is thankfully accomplished; he purchases a nice pen for Mycroft, the same bracelet for both his mum and aunt and a random book for his father.

Pleased with himself, he waits by the car for the women to finish, chancing another cigarette knowing they'd probably be awhile. The sisters return a while later; Sherlock quite chilled by then and slips into the car the moment it's unlocked in order to avoid having to drive back. He was cold and quite exhausted, wanting nothing more than to be back at home and curled up by the fire place.

"How was the excursion?" Mycroft greets them when they arrive back with their parcels.

"How was breakfast?" Sherlock asks an edge to his tone.

"Busy busy," Vie answers Mycroft's question, as he eyes Sherlock.

"Why don't you boys put these under the tree," Madame Holmes passes of the shopping to her sons, before her and Vie flitter off into the house. "No deducing the presents," she calls.

"What is the matter Sherlock?" Mycroft enunciates, as the boy's hull the gifts to the next room.

"Nothing, I'm sure you and father had a lovely productive morning."

"Really, it was only breakfast," the older man shakes his head, "Hardly anything to be jealous over."

"I'm not jealous," Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft gives him a look, quirking an eyebrow. "You would have been bored, Sherly," he informs him, "I'm sure father will invite you when you…"

"What? When I'm older?" He huffs, "You two have had your little club since you where my age, so don't even…"

"What I was going to say," Mycroft pauses, making sure he wouldn't be cut off, "Was when you have a career. As you may recall, I was interning while attending university."

"Then I'll never be invited," Sherlock glares, tossing the gifts haphazardly under the tree, "You're right it's probably boring," he rises, "Why would I want to be a part of something that lets you come anyway," he insults stomping off.

"Sherlock," he calls after the younger man in exasperation, righting the tossed presents.

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	14. New Year

AN: Sorry if this and the previous chapter seem a bit boring, but obviously there necessary...

ENJOY!

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><p>Christmas came and went, Sherlock getting only a couple things he'd actually asked for and plethora of items that he didn't want or need. Mycroft and Aunt Vie seemed to be the only ones to truly appreciate what Sherlock got them. Father had barley glanced at the random book he was given, as was expected and mummy smiled in forced nicety at the shock of not receiving what she preordained to be her gift. Luckily Auntie Vie soothed that over and the holiday went on as planned, the best part to Sherlock was when it was over.<p>

It was the day after Christmas that Mycroft had to leave, going back to work and the bustle of London. Sherlock was still sleeping, but Mycroft needed to have a word before he departed. He rapped on the door as usual, expecting to be ignored.

"Come in, 'Croft," Sherlock calls, much to his brother's surprise given the early hour.

Mycroft pushes his way into the door, closing the door behind as Sherlock smokes out the window. "I really wish you wouldn't, Sherly," He chides.

"Would you prefer the alternative?" He insinuates, receiving a harsh look.

"I'm heading back to London," he begins, conversationally.

"Obviously," Sherlock breathes out with the smoke.

"Any way, you certainly proved that it was indeed an experiment," Mycroft concedes, "However, I will continue to monitor this situation."

"Of course you will…"

"These things have a habit of coming back, you understand."

"Right…"he breathes, resting his head on his knees dejectedly.

"I'm not the bad guy here, Sherly," Mycroft assures him.

"Try not to blow anything up will you, you know how wars can cause panic," Sherlock dismisses his brother, starring out the window.

Mycroft nods curtly, taking his leave, "Good-bye Sherlock," he calls striding out of the room.

The next few days pass in a blur, Sherlock alternating between lying in bed and moping about his room. Madame Holmes scolding him about acting as if he was a ghost or waiting to be taken to the gallows; little did she know that was exactly how he felt. On new year's eve, Sherlock was stirred from his despondency.

"Sherlock, darling," Sylvia taps at the door gently, "There's a phone call for you."

The young man thinks for a beat, "Who could possibly be ringing him," he mumbled, before realization dawned on him and flung off the duvet. He threw the bed room door open and marched past the startled house keeper to the nearest phone.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks, putting the receiver to his ear.

"Um, yes…Hi, Sherlock?" The voice awkwardly replied.

"Kenneth, what can I do for you?" He smirks with mock pleasantness.

"It's New Year's and all," Ken begins, Sherlock wincing at the obviousness of the statement, "And a couple mates and I are um… probably just stay around mine and maybe pop to the pub…If you're interested…" He flounders.

"Very well," Sherlock agrees, ignoring the itching in his skin as he moves about the pieces of an old plan.

"It's fine if you don't want to, or nothing, but I though…wait what?" He stops, Sherlock's answer finally registering.

"Yes, I'll come." He reiterates, forcefully keeping the ire out of his voice.

"Brilliant!" Kenneth practically crows through the phone, "Come 'round about 7," he instructs before divulging his address.

After the call, Sherlock goes off to shower and pick out the appropriate attire for tonight. Hanging out with some idiotic blokes didn't warrant anything fancy, but he still needed to look good. In the end he decided on a pair of dark jeans and charcoal button down. He eyed the floor board, scratching the hollow of his neck absently as he contemplated the solution hidden within. Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, he chances one more fleeting glance before sweeping from the room.

Sherlock quickly descends the stairs, patting his pocket to make sure he has his cigarettes, his mother coming out of the parlor as he reaches the bottom. "You going out, cher?" She asks mildly surprised.

"Ken called, going to spend New Year's," he explains.

"Oh lovely," Madame Holmes beams, pleased at the change in demeanor. "I'll see you in the new year, then," she jests, "Will you be staying for dinner?"

"Um…no," Sherlock informs her, "I actually must be of…"

"Well, have a fun and behave," She kisses him on the cheek before she wanders down the hall.

Sherlock flees the house, striding purposefully down the drive to meet the cab outside the gate. Kenneth lived clear on the other side of town, near the outskirts, in an unassuming neighborhood, each house practically on top of the other. Paying the fare he saunters up to the front door, stomping his feet briefly before ringing the bell.

A moment later the door is opened revealing an extremely pleased Kenneth. "Sherlock," he greets him, eyeing his appearance fondly, "Where's your coat, mate?" He asks, ushering him into the house.

Sherlock mentally curses himself, he knew he forgot something. "Good evening, Ken," he briskly brushes off the question as he enters.

A short plump woman in an apron, bustles into the entry way, "There you are Kenny," she starts catching sight of Sherlock, "Oh you must be the dorm mate," She smiles, wiping her hands on her apron before embracing him in a one sided greeting. "You are thin as a rail," Mrs. Dowdy clucks in disapproval, "But you're certainly handsome, Kenny wasn't exaggerating…"

"Mum…" Ken hisses his face turning beat red.

"You have a lovely home, ma'am," Sherlock charmingly offers.

"Such manners," she beams, "You could learn a thing or two from this young man," Mrs. Dowdy scolds her son, "Much nicer than your other mates." The round woman removes her apron replacing it with her coat on the rack and shrugging on the outer garment. "I'm off I'm afraid, I'll be home 'round one maybe later," she adds. "Lovely to me you dear," she winks at Sherlock grabbing her keys and trotting out the door.

"Sorry 'bout her," Ken motions at the door, embarrassment evident upon his weak features.

"It's quite alright, Ken," he nod, glancing around at his surroundings.

"Right, well, let me give you the tour then…" he leads Sherlock through the house, including Ken's own room and ending in the kitchen. "Feel free to smoke," He concludes as if he can read Sherlock's unasked question, "Mum doesn't mind, smokes up a storm herself," he chuckles.

Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice; and had, in fact, already knew it was fine as soon as noticed the ash trays throughout the house. As soon as he light up there's pounding at the door, he exhales wondering briefly why he agreed to this.

"That'll be them then," Ken shuffles awkwardly under Sherlock's piercing scrutiny before going to answer.

The smoking young man relishes in the time he has to himself, mentally preparing himself for the social situation as he idly wonders if Ken is aware of his propensity to point out the obvious. The reprieve was short lived as three other boys and a couple girls filed into the kitchen. The introductions promptly handled, Sherlock barely listening to the various names iterated to him.

After that the beer is brought out and while not his favorite, Sherlock was not going to turn it down. The "get together" was well under way; he decided it was too small of a group to really consider it a party. Everyone was drinking, but it seemed Sherlock was doing so a bit faster than everyone else; once again tacking sips in order to either refrain from saying something wrong or hoping the people would become interesting.

He was sitting at the table in the kitchen, fading in and out of the conversation the one girl was currently having with him. It was obvious she was interested in him, but whatever she was saying paled in comparison to his own thoughts no matter how depressing they may be. Thankfully Kenneth stepped in to clearly mark his territory, Sherlock once again faced with how utterly dull peoples motivations where.

"Couple blokes are out back smoking," he whispers to Sherlock.

"Right," he nods, rising unsteadily to his feet and excusing himself from the table as Ken takes his spot.

Wandering out into the cold night, made warmer by the alcohol coursing through him he finds the two boys in question.

"Hey mate," the call him over, "You interested?" the one asks, holding up a joint.

Sherlock naturally agrees, hoping it has even a hint of the desired effect that he's been longing for. Unfortunately, all it does is drive him further into his mind as he wastes what he deems highly intelligent conversation on these bottom dwellers. Somehow he ends up back inside, Ken's arm slung over his thin shoulders as they count down midnight. The pomp and circumstance erupting from the telly as it tolls midnight on the dot, Sherlock smirks knowing full well what he's doing as he grabs Ken for a proper snog.

He wakes up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed with a body curled around him. His head pounds trying to remember the events from last night as he jostles about to get up the action causing the warm body at his back stirring as well.

"You're awake," Kenneth greets sleepily, Sherlock turning to face the other boy and freezing when Ken moves into kiss him chastely. It takes him a tick for his mind to catch up as the plan comes back to the forefront and he kisses back slightly. "How ya feeling?" he asks.

"Ken, what exactly happened?" Sherlock requested bluntly.

"We didn't…" Ken blushes furiously, at the implication, "I mean we snogged, you're bloody brilliant at that by the way," He smirked, "But that's it, thought you where gunna be sick for a bit, but I got ya tucked in up here and all…"

"Oh…" Sherlock nods, deducing the truth from the other boys face.

"You where freezing, trembling like a leaf, so I tried to help and that's it… we just slept."

Sherlock takes in the earnest information from the other boy, eternally pleased with these developments and knowing that when the time came the other boy would fall spectacularly into place. What Ken doesn't know was that the trembling last night had to do with a lot more than just cold, Sherlock remembering the silent tears and that crushing feeling that was amplified by the depressing qualities of alcohol.

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	15. Check

AN: I'm glad to hear the last chapters weren't boring, I tend to be farther along the plot in my mind so some chapters seem like transport to the main point... Thanks!

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><p>Finally the holiday was over, Ken had offered to share the ride back to school, but Sherlock refused. He wanted to utilize the alone time to prepare for the term and let go of all the tedious things that occurred at home. Once again, the case that housed his "experiment" was in his breast pocket; though this time he was hyper aware of the weight of it. Starring out the cab window at the icy rain he absently held the case through the cloth, trying to ignore the burning.<p>

Sherlock was only an hour away from campus when he caved, removing the case and looking at the syringes inside. Methodically he shrugged off his coat and rolled up his sleeve to utilize the drug, he knew full well that the percentage of the solution was small enough that even though clean the dosage was tolerable.

"Hey, whatch ya fink ya doing?" The cabby called, eyeing Sherlock in the mirror.

"Its insulin you idiot," Sherlock snaps defensively making sure they hit a smooth patch before injecting.

"Oh," the cabby nods in understanding, "Right… sorry, mate."

The effects are wonderful and left Sherlock wondering if this was what it was like the first time he tried the drug, but he couldn't remember. His long fingers began tapping upon his knee as he willed the cab to get there already, longing to be out of the car and out doing something. Perhaps using the labs or check out the medical department, since he had wormed his way into the gross anatomy class it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.

That left another question running through his mind, what to do about the Kenneth situation. There was no way he was going to keep up this habit, without Mycroft suspecting something since his allowance was most likely monitored. Sherlock had to be extremely careful; he couldn't risk anything that would warrant an unwanted visit from his brother. The situation was becoming very restricting at it almost angered him with how even away from home, his independence was being hindered.

However, that's where Kenny came in. It was obvious that Mycroft was still using him for intelligence on Sherlock's well being and such, but what his brother wouldn't be counting on was a turn coat. The ground work was already laid; Sherlock was preying on Kenneth feelings and once the desired relationship was in place the rest was easy. Mycroft wouldn't suspect a thing either, because Sherlock had no real feelings for Kenneth. He'd take it as far as he had to, most likely into bed, and once there Ken would feel guilty about spying.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirking at his own cleverness, the cab finally reaching the destination as he happily leaves the confines of the auto. He quickly races up to his dorm, the energy with in him humming exquisitely as he bounds to the room. Thankfully it's empty as he hurriedly unpacks his things; once that's done he leaves to find something else to occupy him.

Kenneth is an idiot, Sherlock decides a few weeks later. Grant it, he already knew that bit of information, but he had no clue the depth of his idiocy. On the plus side it was making things easier, but Sherlock felt like he was submitting himself to torture in order to keep up the charade.

They were having dinner at the canteen and Sherlock was itching again for his next hit, having forgotten to do it earlier. Kenneth was prattling on about his poetry teacher and how he confused ere and een or some such rubbish. The dark haired man, barley listening as he pushed his food about his plate with blatant disinterest.

"You alright 'Lock?" Ken asks with concern in his watery green eyes, using the nickname which Sherlock never agreed to.

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums, trying to quell the only thought that's currently racking his brain, "Can't believe he'd do that," he states, as if the question was never asked.

"You weren't even listening," the blonde boy huffs, but isn't really upset.

"Sorry," he offers, before deciding now was a good time to insert an idea. "I'm worried, I suppose…" he states wistfully, using his acting skills.

"What about?" Ken takes his hand, the concern returning.

"You know the experiment I was working on before break?"

"Yeah…" he leads, unsure of where this is going.

"Relax Ken, that phase of it is over," he lies. "It's for my thesis, and I'm worried that I'll need more of it to analyze further."

"What is it? Can't you just make it in the lab?" Ken wonders earnestly.

"That's the thing," he sighs, "It's an experimental drug, and my brother was helping me procure it, but…"

"He stopped helping?" Surprise colors his weak features.

"Doesn't want to be a part of it anymore," Sherlock states sadly, "I'm sure I'll figure something out." He adds.

"Let me know if you do," Ken offers thoughtfully, before Sherlock makes him promise not to tell Mycroft.

Sherlock's plan needs to come to a head now, he's dangerously low on the supply he had kept at school and his usage is almost back to what it was when he was messing about with Seb. Tonight he decides, it's Friday and social norms assure that it's an acceptable date night for people.

He's in the toilet, brushing his teeth when Ken comes up and hugs him from behind. Sherlock quells the urge to cringe as he acts pleased to see the other boy; Ken had become more affectionate of late but never going further then a sound snogging here and there. Admittedly Sherlock didn't quite mind the kissing, but found the relationship part extremely tedious as well as the fact that Kenneth seemed to be going at a snail's pace.

"Hey," Ken smirks, kissing Sherlock's shoulder blade as he's awfully short. "You fancy going to the cinema and maybe some food?"

Sherlock finishes brushing his teeth and turns to face the other man, looming over him, "That sounds tolerable," he hums predatorily as he kisses Ken soundly, backing him up against the wall. He was finished dancing around and wanted to make sure his intentions where clear.

Kenneth breaks the kiss with a gasp, "Christ," he breathes, "What's gotten in to ya?" Curiosity crosses his features as he searches the face in front of him, usually Ken's the one to initiate things.

"Nothing," he feigns nonchalance as Sherlock nuzzles the other boys neck , "Just thought we could stay in," he smirks, ghosting his mouth down and slipping a knee between Ken's.

A whimper escapes from Kenneth at the barrage as he moves Sherlock's mouth back toward his own. "In…in is good," he stutters, closing the distance again.

It's a definite victory for Sherlock he thought as the snogging continued, he couldn't risk Mycroft getting picture of him and Kenneth out on what would seem like a date, plus sitting in a theater for hours was not something he could do when he'd taken his solution. There's mild surprise when Kenneth's dominate streak takes hold, as he flips their positions and slams Sherlock against the wall.

He trails down Sherlock's neck, kissing every area he can reach before moving to the buttons of his shirt. "Too many clothes," he breathes hastily undoing them to expose pale flesh. Ken leaves Sherlock's shirt on as he trails his tongue down his chest, Sherlock frowning at the unpleasant feeling of cooling saliva.

Kenneth's facial expressions are quite distracting, Sherlock thinks trying to decide if the other boy thinks he's being sexy or something. One thing's for sure though, this needed to be occurring in the dark of the next room and not in the harsh lighting of the in suite. He reaches his long fingers down to Ken's pale hair and pulls him back, their mouths mashing together as Sherlock takes the initiative to lead them out of the bathe.

As soon as they reach the first bed, Ken pushes Sherlock back onto it and pauses to stare down at him. Sherlock offers a small smirk, barley visible in the weak light as Ken removes his shirt. As unattractive as the boy may be, he's still fairly fit, Sherlock concedes. Kenneth climbing on the bed and straddling the other boy's slender hips as their lips find each other.

Sherlock's mind is elsewhere, yet he remains focused enough to pay attention to what's happing. He's a bit glad that Ken's eagerness is showing, knowing that from the current position he won't have to do too much and it'll be over quickly. A hand makes its way down his exposed skin to his trousers, as they're quickly undone. Sherlock arching involuntarily into Ken's sweaty hand as his cock his exposed.

He feels Kenneth's mouth alongside his neck, and pulls him back by his hair to prevent him from marking him. The last think Sherlock needed was evidence against him, luckily Ken moved on. Sitting back the shorter boy undid his own trousers before leaning over Sherlock's lithe frame in a sloppy kiss with frankly too much tongue.

It was Sherlock turn to gasp as Kenny took both there erections clumsily in hand and began stroking them off. It wasn't exactly what Sherlock had been expecting for tonight's activities, though it was certainly more favored. Just as expected it was over quickly, Ken cuming messily on Sherlock's stomach and panting heavily as he continued his attentions on Sherlock who finally came after what seemed like ages. Sherlock made a note to see if that could be remedied.

Kenneth collapsed next to Sherlock, wedged up against the wall as he continued to catch his breath. "That was…" he pants, "Yeah…"

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums acting as if he was too blissed out to form more of a response, when in reality he felt disgusting and wanted nothing more than to shower.

After a beat, Ken grabs his shirt and cleans up the mess on left on Sherlock as the dark haired boy refastens his trousers. Throwing the shirt off into the room, Ken raps his arms around Sherlock's lithe frame. "How ya doin?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's curls.

"Fine," he offers.

"You're still worried aren't ya?" Kenneth asks.

"I suppose…" Sherlock leads, people really are too predictable.

"Let's talk about it later," he hums, drifting off to sleep.

As soon as Sherlock's sure that he's deeply asleep he slips off the bed and goes for a shower. He's coming down from his high and the self loathing is creeping up his back as the hot water scalds his skin. There's no going back now, he's already too far into this and he can't help but hate how manipulative this whole thing is. Lie after lie coming out of him until he himself believes it as truth. It's revolting in a way, he recognizes this. Though, on further inspection he can't seem to care, at all; the whole cycle is quite numbing.

He scrubs at his skin, pathologically, trying to erase every trace of what just occurred; rationally knowing that he'll have to go back out there. Once he's satisfied he steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and sitting on the toilet seat. His pale skin red from the both the water and the scouring, as he rubs a hand over his face trying to dispel all thought. In the end he turns to the syringe, using half to make it last and taking care of it quickly then dressing in his pajama pants.

Taking a deep breath he exits back into the room definitely not prepared for any of this, pacing a bit before sitting in the chair at the far desk that's diagonal to the bed and his sleeping roommate. He watches and waits, wishing he could leave and have a smoke, forget the whole stupid plan. It's not that easy though, it was the point of no return.

Ken shuffled, coming out of his doze to find himself alone. "'lock?" He calls looking around before finding the other man. "Sorry, didn't mean to drop out on ya like that," he apologizes needlessly.

"It's fine," Sherlock rasps, clearing his throat.

"What is it babes?" He asks, Sherlock disliking the pet name. "I'm thinking it's about time I stopped helping your brother." Ken informs him, starring up at the ceiling dreamily, "Given the circumstances and all."

"I have an idea," Sherlock leads, crossing the room to join him on the bed. They lay together once again, Sherlock doing his best not to seem rigid as he divulges his idea. Explaining how they can split the money his brother has been paying Ken and it will ultimately benefit them both. It comes as no surprise as the fool eagerly agrees and things are finally in motion.

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	16. Interruptions

The plan is working out perfectly, Sherlock able to use at his leisure and no longer has to worry about it. Things with Ken seemed to be fine, he knew he was avoiding the situation; but simply blamed it on being busy with course work and such. It was only a matter time until Kenneth got fed up and Sherlock would be forced to a repeat of that night. Ultimately, he figured he'd cross that bridge when he came to it; especially considering it had been almost a month since.

Sherlock was in the lab conducting an experiment with one of the specimens he procured from the anatomy class; when Mycroft casually strolled in. The surrealness of it nearly caused the younger man to drop the beaker he was currently swirly about.

"Glad to see you're actually focusing on your studies," Mycroft smiles taking in his surroundings.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, not looking up from his continued work.

"I need your help," is the pleasant reply.

"You could have just called," he points out, as he makes a sample to place under the microscope.

"Would you have answered?" Mycroft replies haughtily. "I need you to run a lab test," he informs him, brandishing a large evidence file.

"Don't you have people who could do that," Sherlock sighs with disinterest as he focuses the instrument under his eyes.

"They can't be trusted," Mycroft tersely states. "I figured you'd enjoy a break from the tedious…" he leads, examining the contents of a Petri dish with mild disgust, "But if you're too busy…"

"I can't promise anything," he feighns, taking the bait.

"Excellent," the elder brother drops the file on the table, "It's of the highest priority, Sherlock." Mycroft informs him sternly.

"National security and all that?" Sherlock mocks.

"Something like that," comes the cryptic reply, "I expect a detailed email by the end of the week." He moves to the door, Sherlock remains silent in mild protestation, "Don't make me order you."

"Is that meant to frighten me?"

"Not at all, just a friendly warning Sherly," Mycroft smiles in fake sincerity, "I know you won't disappoint me."

As soon as he came, Mycroft was gone and Sherlock released a breath he didn't remember holding. It was hard to tell what his brother was able to deduce from their brief encounter, but he hoped he didn't pick up his current state. He picked up the file, opening it carefully and eyeing the evidence bag before reading the report. That's when Kenneth showed up with coffee and confusion on his face.

"Wha' your brother want?" He asks handing off the hot beverage.

"Who knows," he shrugs as his eyes continue to scan the page.

It was disappointing how obvious the whole case seemed to be, he had a clear idea of the culprit just from reading the report. The tests he conducted proved his hypothesis right and he sent the email to his brother that night, smiling at the knowledge that he'd wrapped it up before Mycroft was even back in his bed for the night.

Mycroft read the email, with a smile. He knew the curiosity would get the better of Sherlock, it was pleasant to see how detailed the report was. The whole thing was very precise and he wished his own people where as analytical and clear as his own brother. The older man sat back from his desk going over his brother's appearance and demeanor from tonight. There was a nagging feeling that he missed something, sure Sherlock seemed agitated and terse; but was that merely the surprise visit or something more.

That idea floated around, causing fresh worry to plague him. Drumming his fingers on the desk he made the decision to email Kenneth and request a weekly report from his surveillance people positioned around his brother. Hopefully he was reading too much into the situation, but in the end it's always better to be safe rather than sorry.

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	17. Resignation

AN: FYI Probably won't get an update in till Sunday or Monday... Thanks for reading! :D

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><p>Mycroft's suspicions rise when the emails he receives from Kenneth don't seem to match up with the CCTV footage. Kenneth writes telling him that Sherlock has been sparring less due to keeping up with his studies, and was actually eating a bit more regularly. The pictures however, show an extremely jaunt Sherlock with varying degrees of bruising, traipsing about at all hours of the night. It's disconcerting to say the least, but unfortunately he's out of the country for a month and wouldn't have free time even if he wasn't. All he can do is let his people do their jobs and send a reply to Kenneth.<p>

To: KDowdy

Subject: Re: SH

Kenneth,

Thank you again, for keeping me up to date on my brother. However, there are some mild discrepancies that I hope you'll be able to remedy. I'm not sure if your last email was perhaps old, but my footage doesn't match the picture of health you have described. As my intelligence is up to the nano second, I have to assume the fault is on your end.

I know you are fond of my brother, but lying for him will not help his situation. Suffice to say that if you are lying, I will find out. Whatever he will or has offered you, pales in comparison to what I am capable of and I can make your life outside of University very difficult for you.

It pains me to have to warn you in such a manner, I have grown quite fond of our correspondence. Understand that I have my brother's best interest in mind and our interactions tend to ease my mind. Hopefully, there has just been a simple misunderstanding.

-M.H.

Kenneth reads and rereads the email at least twenty times trying not to panic, before Sherlock returns from wherever it is he was. It was clear that Mycroft was suspicious and no offense to Sherlock, his brother was a frightening sod.

"You're tense," Sherlock observes the instant he steps through the door.

"Am?" Ken chuckles bordering manic, "Your bloody brother is on to us." He points to the email still up on his screen.

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums, leaning forward to scan the document.

"I'm done, Sherlock," he gets up from his seat anxiously, "I can't do this, I'll just reply and tell him that school's a bit much right now and I can no longer keep an eye on you and that will be that… Thanks, but no thanks" He rants.

"You will do no such thing," the dark hair boy commands, steepling his fingers as he contemplates the email.

"Like hell, I won't," Kenneth shouts, his voice rising in octave. "Did you see the bit where he politely threatens my future career, Sherlock?" He throws his hands in the air, "He may not scare you, but that's a huge risk for me."

Sherlock tunes out the other boy as his mind searches for a solution; what would he do if he loses funding? The ground work with Ken would have been for nothing, but on the plus side he could end the one sided relationship. The question was who Mycroft would get to be the next operative.

"Surly you have enough to conclude your thesis, Sherlock; I mean it's been a month or two and all…"

"Fine," Sherlock snaps out of his reverie. "Tender your resignation." He grabs his jacket dramatically and sweeps out of the room. Ken was right; the only way to remedy the situation was for him to resign. The money that had been shared was more than enough to keep him stocked for a while and there was always ways to get more.

Traipsing around campus and chain smoking, Sherlock became hyper aware of all the CCTV cameras and wondered what his brother would do if he personally destroyed them all. He smirked mischievously at the idea as it played out in his mind.

Kenneth sent a regretful reply to Mycroft shortly after the other boy fled the room. It was terrible situation and it took him a good hour or so to make sure it was worded well enough. The pressure involved, kind of made the choice worth it. He'd been planning to stop anyway due to the relationship with Sherlock, but only kept because Sherlock insisted.

To: M 1000217 H

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I apologize for the misunderstanding; I've been really busy with course work and all. I'm afraid I must have sent the wrong email or something. Sherlock's seems fine though, and I've been trying to feed him up and such. I've been doing my best with the time I have, it's getting busy.

No disrespect or nothing, but I don't think I will be able to continue with our arrangement. As I mentioned, the courses are really difficult this term and I'm having a hard enough time keeping an eye on myself let alone someone else. Thank you sir, for the opportunity and while I may no longer be on your payroll I will still watch out for your brother.

-Kenneth Dowdy

Pleased with himself, Ken hits send and swivels happily in his desk chair at the accomplishment. He moves on to his course work and keeps at it until Sherlock saunters back in; Smelling of smoke and eyeing his roommate critically, "Have you sent it?" he asks, brow creased.

" What…oh yeah," Kenneth smiles, "Relief that too," he sighs, leaning back in his chair triumphantly.

"What did you say?" The dark hair boy demands, an edge to his tone, "Be precise."

Ken's smile falls at the concern on Sherlock's face as he goes back to his computer to pull up the sent message, "Here read it for yourself," he offers, standing up so they can switch spots.

Sherlock quickly reads over what was sent. "You idiot!" he roars, turning on the boy.

"Hey, I worked hard on that."

"Obviously not hard enough," he snaps, "Mycroft's going to see right through this! Might as well have added a p.s. I'm happily snogging your brother, thought you should know," he mocks.

"That all this is?" Kenneth asks his face falling in confusion, "I thought we were… ya know?" he flounders.

"Clearly not anymore," Sherlock replies coldly.

It's silent for a beat, Kenneth's slow mind take ages to reach a conclusion. "You've been lying," he breathes. "This whole time, I was so stupid…" he shakes his head, "All this time me thinking you actually cared, but all you cared about was your stupid experiment."

"This surprises you?" He smirks superiorly.

"I was practically bloody in love with you… you complete arse!" Ken spits in disgust.

"There's that term, again…" Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Strange concept I know, don't worry I'm sure you'll never hear it again," he glares, "I must have been barmy to think for a moment I had a chance with you..." He shakes his head, "Have fun being alone, Sherlock. Seems you're used to it anyway," he adds stomping angrily from the room.

Sherlock stands there frozen for a beat as the cutting words sliced into him. Ken was right, he thought; love was a confusing concept to him. Logically it was just a word, and held too much meaning to people. He never wrote it in cards to his family or anything because to him it was an empty gesture. It was a mystery, why write something you don't understand or believe in. Alone was fine, alone was clear and as long as he had his mind he was perfectly content; until boredom crept in anyway.

The boredom was what drove him to all of his distractions, it was like a terminal disease; it could be in remission, but it would never go away. Sherlock tried to dismiss what Kenneth had said; he had served his purpose and was no longer needed. The whole thing made perfect sense, except for the fact that the situation was affecting in a very unwanted way. The feeling was gripping him like a vice that he didn't understand or knew what to do about, so he did the only thing he could and injected it away.

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	18. Spiral

AN: Thanks for being patient :D

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><p>Sherlock, out of necessity, began to keep odder hours. He avoided the dorm whenever he knew Kenneth would be there, unless he was a sleep. At night he'd take care of what he needed to and would most likely be gone or unconscious when Ken would awaken. It was by no means ideal, but Sherlock preferred the night anyway. He also knew that the change of schedule would throw off his brother's people.<p>

He also began spending time up on the rooftop. The solitude and open air allowed his mind some semblance of peace and ability to smoke freely. Spring was nearing an end and soon school would be on break, but he wasn't sure if he would be prepared for that. Perhaps he could find some sort of internship in London and live there for the whole of break. Bart's would probably offer an interesting lab experience and be morbid enough to peak his interest, he figured as he looked out over the diminishing light of the town below.

Filing that away for further development he moved onto other things. Wondering if he could safely use his allowance again without sparking any unwanted attention. The fact that both his supply and his funding where on the decrease was more than cause for concern; Sherlock didn't want to be reduced to having to do any kind of favors or owe money. Perhaps he could work something out with Marcus, though he idly wished his drug of choice was something he could just cook up himself with simple chemistry.

Upon receiving Kenneth's email, Mycroft was greatly disappointed and a bit furious if truth be told. Sherlock had manipulated that poor boy into a false liaison and for what purpose, he contemplated. A part of the elder Holmes hoped it was only to prevent Mycroft from keeping tabs on him, but he knew what the real reasoning was. It was a painful realization; however he couldn't risk the accusation on his brother without garnering concrete proof of the relapse.

Calling his assistant into his office he instructed her to freeze his brother's accounts and to notify him if anyone tried to access them. If Kenneth was no longer a part of his payroll, Mycroft knew that any funding Sherlock had was no longer available and he clearly didn't have any other income at the moment. It was only a matter of time before the he became desperate.

In the meantime, Sherlock went off in search of ways to get money; first he applied to a paying internship at St. Bartholomew's making sure that he would appear to be a prime candidate for acceptance. Then he infiltrated the boxing scene, looking for underground fights where anyone could enter at random and the pay offs where great. He worked out a deal with Marcus, letting him in on the betting in exchange for the drugs.

His slight frame was always a benefit when it came to the betting, one look at him and the simple minded betters would assume he'd sooner be killed than win. The down side to this, however, was recovery time. While he may win the majority of his fights, he'd still end up beaten in various degrees. Luckily, he "befriended" a medical student who, while studying for post-mortems was happy to assist for the experience. Sherlock had found her by hacking the application database to gain access to other students who where apply for the same internship.

Sherlock only utilized her skills when it was strictly necessary; preferring to patch himself up then have unwanted attention. This new plan was working quite well, for a while at least. He'd almost completely forgotten about his brother, until Kenneth deigned to speak to him. Sherlock had been on the roof all night until about 9 am, and decided it was safe to return to the room since Ken would be at class by now. He was surprised to find that Ken was still in the dorm.

"You look like shite," Kenneth tells him, with barley a glance, "And you smell like an ash tray."

"Don't you have class?" Sherlock shoots back, annoyed.

"It's Saturday," he replies curtly, like it should be obvious.

"Mhm," he huffs, hiding his surprise at the new information as he wonders where the week had gone. Sherlock starts to strip down, realizing a shower is probably in order.

Ken watches out of the corner of his eye, out of habit mostly, before he decides he needs to get out of here, "Try not to stink the place up," he shoots vindictively as he slams the door.

Sherlock makes a rude gesture at the door with a glare, moving to go and have a nice hot shower. He washes his lithe frame with shaking hands, realizing that his forgotten days also made him forget a "dosage" of his 7% solution. After his shower, he does his best to steady his hand as he tries to plunge the needle into his forearm. Cursing at his own stupidity he drops the syringe a couple times, finally getting frustrated. He throws the needle angrily in the sink, and decides to get some sleep and try again later.

Curled up tightly in bed, he barley remembers to set his alarm for the fight tonight. The exhaustion setting in not sure how long it had been since he had last slept or ate, he figured now was as good of a time to remedy that.

What he wasn't counting on was for Kenneth to interfere in any way. He had dismissed the boy completely since the "break up" if it could even be called that. Sherlock assumed that he was no longer any concern to the other boy; especially since heart break was supposed to be a horrible feeling, or so they say. However, Ken was still a decent person and would have felt terrible if he'd just stood by and let Sherlock kill himself, regardless of their history.

Mycroft received the email late that night, after a tiring day of terrorist and various threats. It was a habit of his to check them before he retired for the night, but tonight a part of him wished he hadn't.

To: M 100027 H

I know, since it's really no longer my concern that I shouldn't be contacting you. However, it's not on standing by and doing nothing. Your brother is a manipulative git, but he's killing himself and I can't have that on my conscious. I won't apologize for the language, sir, as I'm sure you can figure out what happened yourself. I don't know all the details, but it's not just an experiment, at least not anymore. I hadn't seen him in weeks, since I resigned that is, until today.

Sherlock came in looking like he went twelve rounds with a meat packer and smelling like he smoked an entire tobacco shop. That's not to mention the fact that it's clear he hasn't been sleeping and is thinner than I've ever seen him in the past two years. He didn't even know what day it was, I know that's not something he tends to keep track of, but somehow it was different.

-K.D.

As soon as Mycroft finishes reading the message his phone rings.

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	19. Pain

Sherlock over sleeps, waking up a good half hour or so after his alarm went off. Of all days for this to happen this is definitely the worse. He bolts out of bed nearly tripping over the sheets that managed to tangle around him. There's barely enough time for him to throw on his clothes, grab an apple and fly out the door. There's no way he can be late, if he's late he doesn't fight and if he doesn't fight Marcus will be furious.

Running the whole way to the predetermined location, he manages a couple bites of his apple before tossing it in favor of pressing on; ignoring the tremors that are racking through him. Sherlock barley makes it in time, greeted by a relieved Marcus.

"There ya bloody are," he snaps, "I placed my bet nice and early, a pretty penny too…let's not mention wha' happen if ya didn't make it, ya?" Marcus threatens.

Sherlock ignores the ruffian, shrugging out of his shirt and heading to the make-shift boxing ring. He shakes out his arms, the twitching in his limbs finally registering in his mind as he realizes he never got to the solution in his haste.

"You alright, mate?" Marcus questions as he rubs Sherlock's thin shoulders to warm him up for the match.

"I'm fine," Sherlock snaps, shrugging off the other man.

The two fighters step into the center, their guards up as the proprietor of the match lists the minor rules and commences the fight. Sherlock tries his best to keep up, but is finding it harder to concentrate on the fight. His limbs feel heavy and he wants nothing more to go back to his room and be unconscious. Landing a couple mediocre blows on his opponent, he effectively evades the first two jabs.

The fight is a lost cause, however. A well aimed body shot, a quick upper cut and a cross leave Sherlock more dazed then when he arrived. Swaying on his feet as the noise of the crowd pounds in his ears, he throws a wild punch hoping to hit his target. Sherlock misses, the next series of blows draw blood and he goes down.

Mentally he wills himself up to his feet, but his craving body doesn't let him. Sherlock watches as if he's somewhere else, as the larger man is deemed the winner of the fight. The pain is dull yet acute at the same time, while he lies there clutching his side. Marcus appears with his two thugs in tow and hall him up onto his feet.

Cold air hits him sharply as he's taken out back to the dimly lit alley of the bar. The two men, drop Sherlock roughly to his knees in front of Marcus.

"Wha' the fuck where ya thinking?" The man roars irately. "Ya cost me a lot of money and for what!" He accuses, pulling Sherlock's head back by his hair.

"I missed a…" Sherlock hisses as he sags a bit, wanting this to end in more ways than one.

"You're a junkie and ya can't even remember to use," Marcus chuckles sinisterly, letting go of the other man with a push, "You're pathetic, mate." The man paces back and forth as he contemplates a course of action. "God help me, but ya got another chance," He informs him, "Ya better be high as a fucking kite for next match…"

Sherlock nods weakly in understanding.

"Muck this up again, and I'll kill ya," he nods to the two thugs.

The first thug hauls Sherlock to his unsteady feet and holding him there as the other one punches him square in the face and stomach. They drop Sherlock to the ground in heap, Marcus coming up close the broken man.

"Consider this your incentive," he smirks, delivering a swift kick to Sherlock's ribs. He straightens up, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock groans from the ground curly around himself as the men leave and unconsciousness clouds his vision.

* * *

><p>:)REVIEWS(: Are, as always, super helpful and appreciated, Thank you guys! :D<p> 


	20. Hospital

Sherlock fades in and out, barley registering when the pub employee finds him or being moved. He wakes to find Mycroft sitting in a chair besides his hospital bed, legs crossed as he dozes with his head on his hand. The younger boy looks around the room to observe the rest of his surroundings. The monitor beeps softly at his side and he's hooked up to a couple different drips. He follows the tubing down to his pale hand; a weird self consciousness sets in as he notices his bare arms.

Under the harsh lights, the darker marks stand out in a garish contrast; Sherlock shuffling to tuck his arms out of view, pain evident in his wrapped ribs. A nurse comes to check his vitals, the soft tread of her shoes instantly rousing Mycroft who was always a light sleeper.

"You're awake," Mycroft points out, before the nurse does.

"Obviously," Sherlock rasps.

"You gave us quite a fright," the nurse admonishes, pushing things on the equipment and taking up his chart. "Fractured and bruised ribs, minor concussion and malnutrition," She tsks, "We'll know more when the results of your blood test are back." The woman smiles warmly as she takes her leave.

Mycroft watches his brother with a stony look on his face, "And what will that reveal, Sherlock?" Sherlock doesn't reply, poignantly looking out the window as he unconsciously tugs his sleeve. "Mummy's on her way, I hope you're pleased," he adds calmly.

"Why?"

"Honestly, Sherlock," he rolls his eyes as he moves to stand, "You're in the hospital after being found unconscious in an alley, why do you think she's coming."

"She'll worry," Sherlock mutters.

"And for good reason," Mycroft snaps, "What is this really about?"

"Nothing," he breathes, "I lost a fight, that's all," he crosses his arms defensively.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you Sherlock."

"Believe what you want, Mycroft," Sherlock pouts. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"Why am I here?" Mycroft repeats incredulously, "After receiving an email about my only brother's diminishing well being, I receive a call that you've been taken to the Surgery, so you tell me why you think I'm here!"

The two brother's glare at each other, Sherlock squirming and breaking the uncomfortable eye contact. "I don't need you here," he whispers.

"Is that so… You think it's just you against the world, then?" He asks, the resounding silence amore than enough of an answer and elder man couldn't take it anymore, "Damn it Sherlock! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Sherlock was a bit startled by the outburst, but unsure of the proper answer, "I don't think so," he whispers.

"Well you could've fooled me," Mycroft informs him, "This blatant disregard you seem to harbor for yourself cannot continue."

"Stop mothering me," he grits out, "I already have one, thank you."

"This is not a joke, Sherlock. We had a deal and this is clearly no longer a scientific pursuit."

"I was clean by Christmas, the contract is void now," Sherlock huffs.

"Regardless," Mycroft fumes, "This is clearly a problem that you're going to have to atone for."

"I'm not going to rehab," he protests angrily, "I don't have a problem."

"Would you prefer jail, then?"

"You can't threaten me," Sherlock glares, the whole conversation growing tiresome.

"It's not me, Sherlock," Mycroft shakes his head, "The police are always notified when addicts wind up in the hospital." He enunciates.

"I was beat up and drugged," he lies defensively.

"Your arms say otherwise."

Sherlock frowns, crossing his arms tighter, "What do want?" he asks after a beat, "I have an internship this summer…"

"At Bart's, I know," Mycroft replies smugly.

"So you see I'm unavailable…"

"Hardly," he began, "If you agree to attend rehab, you can still participate in the program."

"You expect me to live with you, that's part of the deal too isn't it?" Sherlock sizes up the other man.

"Naturally, I have to be assured you're behaving."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'm sure the proper authorities will be happy to accommodate you," Mycroft smirks pleasantly.

Sherlock contemplated the offer, knowing full well he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Silently he nodded, gazing out the window in contemplation; at that moment, Madame Holmes burst into the room.

"Oh, mon cher!" She cries, crossing the room and embracing her youngest carefully. "What happened?" She questions, stroking the side of his face gently to avoid the bruising.

Mycroft took the opportunity to excuse himself to have a word with the doctor and take care of a few things. There were still things he needed to address with his brother, but he made the necessary arrangements while Mummy talked to him. It was hard to say if Sherlock would be forth coming with information; most likely only divulging what was necessary and nothing more.

Tracking down the doctor didn't take long, Mycroft strolling back down the hallway to Sherlock's room to find their mother leaning against the door. Her handkerchief held under her delicate nose, as tears fell quietly. She looked up at Mycroft with a watery smile, the man completely unprepared for the entire situation.

"Where did I go wrong?" She sniffs, "I should have noticed or…"

"There's no way you could have," Mycroft comforts her, feeling almost like a child again, which was probably the last time he witnessed his mother's tears. "Sherlock has always been skilled at hiding what he didn't want others to see."

Madame Holmes nods her eyes down cast, "What am I to do?" She dabs her eyes, "Your father will be furious, I can't tell…" She inhales sharply, "This is a nightmare."

Mycroft awkwardly embraces his mother, in an attempt to calm her. "I'll take care of it mummy," he soothes.

After a beat, they move to the bench outside of the hospital room. Mycroft informing Mummy of the rehab program he found that would allow Sherlock to continue his internship over the summer, and how he'd be there to keep an eye on him.

"What about the term?" Madame Holmes questions, "There's still a week or two left."

He contemplates that for a second, "We may have to allow him to finish," he sighs, "And take comfort in the fact that he will be getting help."

"Why?" She questions, her voice wavering, "Has he told you anything?"

Mycroft realizes that she's asking why Sherlock's doing this, but can only shake his head. "I don't know, Mummy."

"If this is just some silly experiment," she huffs, her voice taking a hard edge, "I'll kill him myself."

"I fear there's more to it than that," he pats her shoulder, "Not like he tells me anything, not any more anyway."

She nods thoughtfully. "Leave your father to me," Madame Holmes straightens up as she dries her eyes, "We'll tell him when the term is over… When Sherlock is already in the program."

"Very well," Mycroft nods, unsure how father will react to this whole ordeal.

"Thank you, cher," she smiles warmly, giving him a little squeeze. "Come on," She stands, waiting for her eldest so they can return to Sherlock's bedside.

Inside the room, Sherlock is staring dejectedly out the window like some sort of rag doll. He shuffles slightly, when they enter to make sure his arms aren't visible. Madame Holmes crossing the room to take her sons hand.

"Sherlock," she calls softly.

"What have you decided?" He asks as if he's being sentenced to death and remains immobile.

"You will finish your term," Madame Holmes begins sternly, "Get this nonsense out of your system once and for all." She squeezes his hand, "Your brother has gone through a lot of trouble for you in this matter and you will obey him while in London. If I find out that for any reason you aren't doing as you're told you'll be on the first train home…" She warns, "And then it'll be up to your father and I, what to do with you, but believe me we will not be as generous Sherlock." Her face is a cool mask as she gives her warning. "Now, give your mummy a hug and I'll see you later," She orders, Sherlock barley moving to acquiesce.

She takes her leave, the two brothers left alone in the awkward silence of the room. Sherlock absorbing everything, numbly as he absently picks at the blankets. "Father's going to kill me," he breathes.

"Would you blame him?" Mycroft answers poignantly. "Mummy's not going to tell him, till after term." He informs the younger man, knowing it would be useless not to.

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums pensively.

"Now I want you to be honest with me Sherlock," He takes a seat, "Who did this to you?" Sherlock shoots him a look, "I don't mean the drugs," Mycroft clarifies as he settles in.

Sherlock emotionlessly divulging the entirety of what he remembers that night, leaving out only certain bits here and there.

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D<p> 


	21. Change

Mycroft goes to deal with Marcus personally, knowing full well it will most likely take a handsome sum of money to eradicate the man from Sherlock's life. He strides in, to what the low life laughingly calls his place of business, as if he owns it.

"Can I helps ya?" The unnaturally blonde receptionist asks him, eyeing him hungrily.

"I'm here to have a word with your boss," Mycroft informs her coolly.

"Just a tick, luv," She smiles, picking up the phone to buzz the other room; she swivels in her chair as if doing so will prevent Mycroft from hearing her. "Marcus…yeah…no, there's some posh bloke here to see ya," She swivels back around, covering the receiver with a overly manicured hand, "Wha's this in regards to?"

"We have a common acquaintance," he leads, "Sherlock Holmes."

The girl nods, "Says he knows a bloke named Sherlock…will do." She hangs up, "Through there babes," she points to the door to the left with her pen, "Feel free to call if you need anything."

"Thank you," Mycroft smirks, hiding his disgust at the classless woman practically throwing herself at him.

He strides into the room, firmly closing the door behind him as he takes in the room critically. His gaze ending on the shrewd looking man before him, "Marcus, I presume."

"Ya, who the fuck are ya?" He snaps, "Wha' buisness ya have with a junkie?"

"Who I am is not important," Mycroft smirks pleasantly quelling the urge to punch the idiot in the face, and taking a seat in front of the other man's desk. "I want you to leave Sherlock alone, don't take his money, don't sell him anything, as far as you are concerned he's a frozen account. Indefinitely."

"Like hell," Marcus glares, "Sherlock owes me a pretty penny, see… and I ain't doing nuthin' till we're square."

"I'm sure we can work something out…"

"Wha' makes you think I'll make a deal with ya?"

"What makes you think I won't turn you into the authorities?" Mycroft enunciates icily. "That's the far more pleasant option."

"Is that a threat?" Marcus's features harden cockily.

"It's a promise." He states, then returning to the business at hand, "Now I am willing to pay whatever it is that is owed to you, however you have to keep to your promise."

"Wha' if he comes 'round?"

"Then you ignore him or lie, I'm sure you can figure it out," Mycroft airily sighs.

After that unsavory business was concluded, Mycroft head back to his car to return to the hospital and pick up his brother. Another security detail placed around Marcus's operation to make sure he keeps his end of the deal. On the ride he contemplates how vastly different he and his brother are, yet similar too. Not that Sherlock would care to acknowledge that fact at all.

Sherlock's finishing getting dressed, deftly buttoning his shirt when Mycroft enters the room. "How's Marcus?" he asks, without even glancing at the older man.

"No longer your concern, nor are you his," Mycroft answered in his normally cryptic manner.

"Great," Sherlock frowns; turning to make sure he has the rest of his belongings. "Shall we?" He smirks in mock pleasantness.

The two brother's stride out of the hospital to Mycroft's awaiting vehicle. It was his responsibility to make sure Sherlock arrived safely back to campus. Once settled in on the leather seats, he turned to his brother, "You are to finish the term and that is all, you understand… No mishaps of any kind."

"I'm sure I can handle it," Sherlock snaps.

"Don't pull anything, Sherlock. I am quite aware of what you're capable of in only a week's time." Mycroft informs him, earning a clear pout as the younger man looks angrily out the window. "You can treat me like the bad guy all you like brother," he sighs, his tone bored, "That doesn't change the fact that I'm not."

"Why can't you leave me alone," He states under his breath.

"Why can't you accept help?" Mycroft shoots back, "You're independence is a fault, Sherly."

"It's really not," Sherlock glares, holding his ground.

"People are useful, you'll do better to realize that..." he informs him as the car pulls up to their destination.

"People are idiots," Sherlock huffs, quickly exiting the car to head to his dorm.

The last week was practically torture for Sherlock, but he managed to complete his courses. Luckily, Mycroft's people didn't do a sweep of the dorm so he could use for the whole of the week. He made sure to keep a spare as a sort of reminder, hiding it in the lining of his sack until he found a more suitable place for it.

Casting a critical eye around the now empty room, he took up his packed belongings and left. When Sherlock got outside, Mycroft was waiting for him by his towne car. To his mild surprise he was conversing with Kenneth, who upon seeing the younger Holmes, promptly took his leave.

"What did he want?" Sherlock asks haughtily, throwing his belongings in the open boot.

"Nothing of import," Mycroft replies pleasantly, slipping into the car.

The younger man makes a face moving around to the other side to enter the vehicle. "Do you even drive yourself anymore?"

"Not if I can help it," he states simply.

"Your laziness knows no bounds," Sherlock breathes, shifting to look out the window.

"As if you're not lazy," Mycroft rolls his eyes.

Sherlock tucks his legs up onto the seat, as he puts on his headphones to ignore his brother. Mycroft shakes his head as he goes over some reports for work on the hour or so ride to the city. The ride is boring, the music can only do so much when he can feel his brother's worrisome glances every so often. Shooting his brother annoyed glares to dissuade him from doing so, but it has little effect.

When they arrive to Mycroft's posh residence, Sherlock realizes he's never actually been to visit. It's the first time he's ever set foot in Mycroft's solitary living space, and he can't think why that is. Mycroft shows him into the well furnished dwelling, richly decorated and clearly old. The whole place fits Mycroft down to the ground.

"You would," Sherlock scoffs gazing around his new surroundings.

"So glad you like it, Sherly," Mycroft diplomatically ignores his brother's jibes. "I'll give you the tour and then we'll go over your daily schedule at dinner, that you will eat." He warns.

"Can't wait…" he rolls his eyes.

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D<p> 


	22. Therapy

The first week in London, is a torturous one; the internship doesn't start for another week or so which allows time for the drugs to leave his system. Sherlock's prescribed schedule consists of early morning therapy sessions, medication to aid the detox, group therapy and all the other unpleasant symptoms of becoming clean.

Mycroft does what he can when he comes home at night, making sure Sherlock eats even if it's just to have something to throw up later. It's a hard process, but he can't help but wonder if Sherlock went through this at Christmas time. The thought is unpleasant; considering it means he must have suffered alone while his body broke down to heal itself. He took comfort in the fact that once the internship began, Sherlock would have something else to distract his time and only the psychological aspects to deal with.

Sherlock sat unmoving in the wing backed chair waiting for his therapist, she was late as usual and he wondered if he could just slip out unnoticed. The woman in question burst through the door at that exact moment, looking quite frazzled as Sherlock noted the reason for her tardiness.

"Dumb him," he offers, bored.

"Pardon?" She smoothes her hair before taking up her note pad and moving to sit across from him.

"He's obviously only interested in the sex, so there's no chance for a real commitment, you think you can fix him; not just because of your profession, most woman tend to like broken things, motherly instinct and all. However if, by some stroke of luck you do trick him down the aisle, he'll make quit this silly nonsense, his words not mine, and pop out children, regardless of your wants… so, dump him."

"That's none of your business," She tries to school her features, as she adjusts her skirt and crosses her legs. "Shall we begin?"

"Go on," Sherlock smirks triumphantly, "Didn't think I'd get it all right."

The woman sighs, "Again, not that it's any of your business, but he doesn't want children."

"There's a difference between want and can't," He informs her coolly, "Most men do want children, keep the line and blatant narcissism, etc…"

"Do you want children?" She asks poignantly, trying to sway the conversation back on topic.

"I will never marry," Sherlock states.

"That doesn't answer my question," she makes a note, "In today's society, you don't need to be married to have children whether in a relationship or not."

"It's improbable."

"Fine then," She moves on, "How are you feeling today?"

"Like I'm detoxing," Sherlock retorts, before mocking a gasp, "Oh, well done doctor, I'm cured… off I go then…" He moves to stand.

"Sit down, Sherlock," The woman warns. "It says here you aren't participating in group…"

"It's pointless," he shrugs.

"Why do you say that? The program has been very helpful to individuals such as yourself."

"That's the problem; you're assuming I'm at the same level of those burnt out junkies."

"And you're not?" She clarifies.

"Obviously."

"Sherlock, you have to admit that you have the same problem as the others in your group… That's how the process works; you can't progress to the next step if you don't."

"The steps," Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, "They're archaic."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They're based around the acceptance of a higher being or god, there's no scientific proof of that. Therefore, I can't very well put myself on a "path to wellness" that's made up of fairytales." He replies sarcastically, his frustration with the whole thing rising, "There's no higher reasoning or explanation for my actions, I know why I do it and I know it's not problem."

"And why is that?" She scribbles some notes.

"Why I do it?" He receives a nod, "I do it because it feels good and focuses my mind, I know it's not a problem because unlike those idiots in group; I made sure there's no chance of an overdose." He seethes.

"How does this affect other's Sherlock?" His therapist wonders, unruffled by his outburst.

"There isn't anyone." Sherlock snaps, "I'm responsible for my own actions, what I do doesn't affect anyone but me."

"That seems a bit selfish don't you thing?" She makes a note, "What about your family? You have a brother and parents who care very much about what you're doing to yourself."

"They just worry needlessly."

"Caring is how people show their love, don't you understand that?"

"Should I?" Sherlock glares at her, "I have it under reliable authority that I'm a robot, so..."

"Such things are beyond you then?" She smirks warmly, "Surely there's someone you love or have feelings for."

"I really don't," he shifts sitting with his legs over the arm of the chair, "Love is an abstract concept. It can be said, but I don't have any data on the subject besides empty words and vague notions."

"That's a cynical outlook."

"It's not cynical, it's the facts."

"Not according to the majority of the population," She offers.

"Well, I wouldn't put much faith in a population of imbeciles." He breathes, lighting up a cigarette.

The woman gathers her thoughts as she flips through her notes. "Where do you see yourself a few years?"

"Graduated and working as a chemist," Sherlock answers distantly, "According to my parent's anyway."

"What do you want?" She prods, a silence falling over the room for a beat.

"Something not boring," he answers earnestly.

"Like what? You have to have some idea…"

"Why?" Sherlock questions, turning his harsh gaze upon her as he stands up, "Why do I have to know everything right this second, why can't I figure things out by myself, WHY!" He shouts standing in front of the window with his arms crossed.

"No one's asking you to Sherlock," She tells him gently, earning a scoff. "I think that's enough for today," the therapist nods, putting down her notes and rising. "I still want you to attend the group session, you may not believe in system, but the support of your peers can be very beneficial."

"My peers," Sherlock huffs in disdain, not even waiting for the therapist to show him out, before he's gone and striding angrily to the awaiting towne car.

That night Sherlock is forced again to dine with his brother, petulantly eating so the other man will leave him alone. The dining room is far larger than is necessary, but it's probably all for show; all to please the colleagues and dignitaries.

"How was your session with Ms. Northton?" Mycroft wonders idly.

"Who?"

"Really Sherlock, she's you therapist…"

"Oh… It was tedious," Sherlock grumbles.

"Of course it was," the elder man hums, "It's too soon to tell of course, but she thinks you may be anti-social."

"Irrelevant."

"Possible sociopathic tendencies as well, but I find that highly unlikely."

"Are you going to read all my files, I thought there was a client patient confidentiality." Sherlock accuses.

"There is… I'm only told what is necessary and right now it's all mere speculation." Mycroft insists.

Sherlock rises to his feet, completely sick of the whole thing, he has no idea how he'll survive the summer and moves towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Sick," he answers curtly, exiting the room.

"You have group in an hour," Mycroft reminds after him.

"I KNOW!"

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D<p> 


	23. Disdain

AN: Special thanks to all of you! Readers and Reviewers, you're amazing thank you for the feed back and reading in general! (Random gratitude)

* * *

><p>Sherlock's group was tedious to say the least, there were four people excluding himself and Dr. Hanksham; ranging in age from 18 to 25. It was obvious this was a posh institution; there was the well to do party girl whose drug of choice was mostly X and some cocaine, then there was the alcoholic son of some parliament member, a rich boy who mostly used weed but had been cooking and selling meth, and the bored socialite who was addicted to pain killers.<p>

They sat in a circle and discussed their choices and answered whatever inane questions the Doctor came up with, and Sherlock wanted to die. He had nothing in common with these people besides having rich and well connected families; so he sat there and picked them apart.

"What do you think about that, Sherlock?" Dr. Hanksham asked, snapping him out of his internal musings.

"What?"

"Cynthia was just describing her cocaine experience, would you like to add anything?"

"No." Sherlock glance around the room utilizing his deductive skills to identify the girl in question, since he never bothered with their names. "However, the experience is hardly comparable since she unwisely was still high on ecstasy when she dabbled."

"How'd you know that?" Cynthia snapped.

"I doubt that really matters, a drug are a drug." The doctor reasoned.

"I'd say it matters, chemical compounds react differently not only with your system but with other compounds as well, obviously. It would be like comparing a fruit salad with an orange." He huffs as everyone looked at him in clear confusion at the analogy he used, sighing dramatically he clarifies his statement, "A fruit salad may have orange in it, but it doesn't taste the same as just an orange… Are you all really that slow?"

"I totally get it mate," the weed and meth boy nodded.

Sherlock's retort was cut off by Dr. Hanksham, "Why don't you share with the group a bit about your experience?"

"Pass," Sherlock replies haughtily.

"Your participation is required."

"Not really what are you going to do, force me?" He prods, causing the others to snicker.

"No I can't force you," the doctor sighs, "But I can recommend extra sessions both group and solo, and a variety of other 'treatments'…" He smirks pleasantly at the threat.

"That'd be very ambitious of you," Sherlock shoots back, causing the man's face to fall slightly. "It could very well jeopardize your job, a risk you'd hardly take with a new baby on the way… your first, I believe."

Dr. Hanksham frowns, clearly confused at how Sherlock knew that information. "Alright, Leon, your turn," he moves on.

After the secession when they group is dispersing Cynthia approaches him with clear intent. Sherlock mentally adding promiscuity to her profile, as she slips her number into his jacket pocket with a leering wink.

"How'd it go?" Mycroft asks, as Sherlock slips into the vehicle.

"Do you even have to ask?"

"This hostility isn't helping anyone, Sherlock." He sighs.

The next day, Sherlock can't help but smirk at his on time therapist. The woman clearly heeding his advice from the previous day, even if maybe just a break in the relationship; it was obvious she at least confronted the man. Once again, he was reprimanded during the session for his hostility during group. The session was still one of the more pleasant ones so far, and seems to go by a lot quicker today.

Back at Mycroft's, he's forced to eat lunch by his brother's house keeper. Sherlock obeys more out of fear than anything else as the large Albanian woman glares at him, he's pretty sure she's more assassin than cook. After he eats there's a vast amount of free time until group and he was informed Mycroft would be working late, so there was no telling when he'd come around.

During lunch, Mycroft receives a phone call from Mummy; informing him that their father has been made aware of Sherlock's situation. Madame Holmes isn't able to divulge how Mr. Holmes has taken the news, however, saying he took it silently and went off to work. Mycroft isn't sure what to make of that, almost wishing that father yelled or something to get it out of his system. There was no telling what would happen.

Sherlock was reading up on some Chemistry texts he procured from school in Mycroft's study when the front bell rang. To his surprise his father was shone into the room, his face an impassive mask as Sherlock stared at the man. The realization of what would bring him hearing dawning on him, he placed his book down to properly address his father. Sherlock didn't dare to speak first, knowing full well it was best for the silence to stretch out.

"I assume it's true then," Mr. Holmes begins carefully.

"Yes sir," Sherlock nods as his father looms over him.

The silence falls again, his father starring accusingly at his youngest, "What is the meaning of this, Sherlock?" He asks his voice deathly calm in a way that is far worse than shouting. Sherlock starts to answer before his father cuts him off. "I mean we give you everything, the best schools, everything." His eyes flash, "This is how you repay us… You're mother is a wreck because of you." He snaps, "You're supposed to be clever…"

"I am," Sherlock whispers, his head bowed.

"Your actions prove otherwise," Mr. Holmes jabs, "A common junkie," he shakes his head with disdain, "I have half a mind to pull you out of uni next term, but I'm afraid you'd enjoy that." He reasons, "If this treatment doesn't work… If I hear about any relapse…ONE… You'll be on the first flight out of here, you understand me?"

"Where…" He questions in confusion, unable to help himself.

"Irrelevant," He spits, "You'll be away from the temptation, that's all you need to think about."

"Yes sir," Sherlock nods.

"One chance!" He reiterates, "You fix this Sherlock, this is on you," Mr. Holmes warns, "Your mother can't help you, and Mycroft can't help you. This is your mess, it's about time you face your problems like a man." He pauses dramatically, looking at his son, "God, I can't even look at you," he sneers coldly before taking his leave without another word.

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D<p> 


	24. Silence

Mycroft gets home before Sherlock is due back from group, entering his sanctuary only to find an extremely frazzled house keeper.

"Oh thanks god you're home," she greets as a loud noise comes from above.

"What's going on Alka?" Mycroft asks in evident concern, as the banging continues and he hands off his umbrella and brief case.

"He'll have the place down, I tells ya…" Alka huffs her nerves only a little rattled, which is saying a lot. "Your father was here, sir," She begins, "I's don't know what happened, but your brother refused to be taken to his appointment after he left."

Mycroft is already half way up the stairs by the time she's finished telling him vaguely what happened. Luckily he could review the audio later, but his mind is racing as to what could have transpired. Their father, while meaning well, could be overly critical and in Sherlock's current state it was likely that the chastising carried more meaning.

Cautiously he comes to Sherlock's door, unsure exactly how to proceed. He takes a deep calming breath and pushes open the wooden door. The sight that greets him is a vaguely familiar one, Sherlock's belongs are strewn about everywhere some of them clearly sustaining damage from where they hit the wall.

At first he can't seem to find his brother amidst the chaos of the room, until a small movement catches his eye. There in the corner, like a broken toy, is Sherlock; knees tucked up as he rests his head on his arms, with blood staining his knuckles.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft calls softly, stepping carefully over the carnage towards his brother. The shaking in the younger man's body is the only movement and he's not sure if it's from tears or the withdrawal. "What happened with father?" he leads gently, deciding to sit beside him.

"I…" Sherlock begins, trying hard to find the words with in the turmoil. "He hates me," he shrugs in resignation.

"You know how father is," he tries.

"No," he sniffles, "I don't… not like you do."

"Come now," Mycroft awkwardly rubs his brother's back, like they where kids again.

"It's true…" Sherlock sucks in a breath trying to school is sobs, "I am a mistake."

The elder Holmes frowns at that, remembering the countless times Sherlock had said that over the years. "I know he can be cruel Sherly, but that's…"

"Don't make excuses for him 'Croft," he snaps. "You don't always have to be the mediator." Silence falls over the brother's at the truth of the statement, Sherlock still fighting against his emotions. "Why does he always place this pressure on me, I can't…" he mumbles under his breath.

"You aren't alone Sherlock," he sighs. Mycroft knows his brother will not tell him what happened earlier, but he can't help the anger that rises up in him at their father's callousness. He wishes, in vane, that the man would deign to apologize; even just once for his words or at least see the effect they have. Sherlock is still buried within his arms as they sit in silence. A loose cigarette catches Mycroft's eye on the floor, snatching it up, he lights it; the exhale catching his brother's attention.

Sherlock looks up at his brother, Mycroft keeping his gaze straight ahead he wordlessly passes the tobacco product. The younger man relishing the carcinogenic inhale, the two men silently sharing the cigarette as a kind of odd brotherly understanding; the type where words aren't necessary, but it's all understood. Mycroft knows that Sherlock will be in "silent mode" for an indeterminable amount of time.

"Come on," the elder man gingerly rises to his feet, reaching out to help his brother up, "Let's see if we can convince Alka to whip up some of her famous pancakes." Sherlock's lips quirk a bit, nodding as he's helped to his feet and the brother's make their way toward the kitchen.

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	25. Delete

AN: Another thank you to all you lovely people! Seriously your thoughts etc really are a huge help, I can't say it enough! :D

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><p>Mycroft notifies Dr. Northton of Sherlock's silence, informing her that it's a habit and he'll be talking again in no time; however, she insists he still attends both her session and group. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, but it's hard to tell. In his silence he's become despondent, lost in the expanse of his own mind as he processes the world around him.<p>

"Sherlock," Ms. Northton begins trying to coax any kind of response from the young man sitting across from her, "I understand your father came to visit..." she leads. Sherlock makes no motion, looking out at the window of the office. "A nod will do, dear," she tries. "I take it the silence is because of him; I imagine it must have been difficult for both of you…"

That earns her a piercing glare, Sherlock's face hard as stone. Sighing, the Doctor comes to a conclusion, "If you don't want to talk, that's fine," she sighs, crossing to her desk to retrieve something. "I want you to write instead," She hands him a notepad. "It can be whatever you want; letters to people of things you wish you could say, memories, or internal monologues, anything." The young man studies the pad thoughtfully, "I want you to write every day and bring it with you to our sessions, ok?"

Sherlock remains impassive for a beat than nods curtly, mulling the whole idea over in his mind. He's not sure it's something he could really do, but it's worth a try. There's so much inside him that perhaps purging some of it would help organize things. When he gets back to Mycroft's he writes about father.

_Coming to terms with the fact that your parents aren't the infallible beings you believed them to be when younger is not an easy concept. They're human, and logically you always knew this. However the proof of that reality is striking. The delusion is something that is hard pressed to be rid of, though in retrospect it's glaringly obvious. Mummy hasn't really changed, she's still the only…warmth, I suppose…Grant it, I never realized how distant my parents have grown from one another. _

_Father is, well, father… The supposed love was only ever implied, never said or spoken about. Not that that really matters considering the concept in general, but it's a sentiment all the same isn't it… He's always the strict clinical man behind the curtain, if you will. Mummy has quite the temper on her as well; but her shouting is far more preferred than the clam disdain that emanates from him, even when he's not cross. It may not be right to say, but these are my thoughts so… I'm glad he wasn't around often; it's hard enough seeing the looks and obvious dislike… More so now, I suppose. He never looks at him like that…_

Apparently, Dr. Northton is pleased with the writings; and uses them as discussion topics within the sessions. Sherlock is still refusing to participate in group, only talking to the others when it doesn't pertain to why they're there. The week finally draws to an end and the withdrawal has eased considerably, and the dark moods have yet to set in.

The internship is a welcome addition to his schedule and is proving to be quite exciting. The lab technician giving him free reign to run all the tests for autopsies and such. As it turns out that girl from uni that he utilized was accepted into the program as well. A fact that she was certainly thrilled about, but Sherlock remained indifferent to; there was too much on his mind to deal with silly social rituals and such.

He was still fairly cordial however, assisting her with tests and sitting with her during breaks. She always tried to chat him up, but Sherlock skillfully steered the conversation elsewhere.

"You're looking better," Molly starts awkwardly, "I mean, not that you looked bad before…just healthier." She smiles.

"Mhmm…" Sherlock hums, pushing his pasta around his plate, "Do you think he'll make us come in tonight to run the labs?"

"Oh, um…" She thinks over the sudden subject change, "I'm not sure, it's possible."

He nods distantly, knowing the technician will shirk his duties on to them in order to spend time with his girlfriend. Sherlock grudgingly has to leave for group, but returns promptly after to work the labs unsupervised. It's a lovely experience when Dane isn't putting around and constantly looking over their shoulders.

"I'm going to pop out for a coffee," Molly informs him.

"Fine," He dismisses, looking through the microscope.

"Right," she nods, leaving room.

She's gone for a couple minutes, Sherlock left to his work in pleasant silence when the door to the lab opens and a surprising, yet familiar, face comes in.

"There you are," Cynthia purrs, her heels clicking over the lino.

Sherlock looks up, noticing the short trench coat she was wearing at the session earlier, but minus her hosiery. "Adding stalking to your list of misdeeds?" He asks idly.

"Thought I'd pay you visit is all…" She smirks.

"Not interested," he enunciates, earning a pout from the older woman.

"Come now, I came all this way in the cold," Cynthia clicks closer to his stool.

"It's actually quite warm out," Sherlock states willing her to leave.

"Not when you're wearing hardly a stitch," She whispers in his ear as she straddles him.

"I'm busy and you're only here because you know I don't want you. Now. Get. Off."

"That's the idea darling," Cynthia leers, her coat falling open as she slides her hand down Sherlock's chest towards his trousers, her overly painted lips finding his.

As he was about to push her away, Molly thankfully returned and nearly dropped the coffee as she opened the door. The squeak escaping her lips, startling Cynthia off of him as she quickly redid her coat.

"Um, should I…" Molly stammers as she motions to the door.

"Molly," Sherlock greets, "Perfect timing," he admits in earnest. "Cynthia was just leaving," he throws a glare at the desperate woman.

Another pout graces her features, "Call me later, luv," she winks clacking out the door and sparing a look of disgust at the other woman.

Sherlock shifts awkwardly, while mentally not interested, his body had other ideas as he refocused on his work for distraction.

"Your girlfriend then?" Molly asks, placing a cup of coffee next to him. "She's a bit old isn't she…not that… no, age is just a number and all, um…"

"No she is not," he offers stiffly, "She's an addict," he adds without further explanation; leaving Molly to wonder just what kind of addict he's refereeing to.

Later that night he discloses the incident in his writings, expounding on the fact that part of him was more than interested to see the incident to it culmination; while the importance of the work he was conducting won precedence. Sherlock realized that the only reason he was interested in the first place was because he knew the act in itself could inflict pleasure and other chemical responses that a part of him craved.

Unlike Cynthia, however, he wasn't addicted to pleasure the same way. His high came from more mental stimulation, and while he may crave the more base feelings; he realized that he could ignore them.

"What do you mean here," Dr. Northton points to the passage, "When you say you can ignore what's unnecessary?"

"Oh that," Sherlock straightens, "I suppose it was a sort of epiphany, if you will." He begins, "The only thing that matters is my mind and discovering or learning important things, I just need to find something to set it upon and I'm content. Everything is else is either transport or, like I said, unnecessary."

"What falls under those categories?"

"Eating and things like that are transport, while sentimentality and the like fall under unnecessary."

"What brought about this discovery?"

"I merely realized that while I used the solution for mostly intellectual expansion, the underlying reasons where irrational and could therefore be deleted."

"And those are?" She leads, trying to get him to address his feelings; but only gets a look that says' they're obvious and don't need to be stated. "So you think deleting these "unnecessary" things will cure you?"

"Who said I was ill?" Sherlock shoots back.

Ms. Northton sighs weightily flipping through her notes, "Emotions are what make us human Sherlock… you can't just continue to repress them."

"I'm not repressing them I'm removing them, it's simple really."

"How so?"

"Well I'm not sure about most people, but assuming you can control your own mind… which I can, then you can organize it."

"I can't argue with that," She agrees, but there are things that your brain controls unconsciously, "Breathing for example."

"Boring…" Sherlock sighs, "And that doesn't mean you aren't aware of it at some level, it's a necessary function for life."

"But feelings aren't?"

"Not at all, they are irrational and cloud impartial judgment."

"Even Spock had emotions, Sherlock," Ms. Northton reminds him.

"Irrelevant, he was fictional."

"If you ignore your feelings long enough, they don't go away… they build up until you break… What then?"

"It's unlikely," Sherlock stands his ground.

"I think you'll find it's not, little by little they'll get in Sherlock. Than what, it's back to the needle to numb them away?" She prods, trying to force him to see the reality of the situation.

"No," he shakes his head vehemently.

"There's a lot of people that care about you…"

"I never asked to be cared for!" Sherlock snaps, "I'm in control and this will work," he tries to keep the desperate edge out of his tone.

"Why do you think this has to work Sherlock?" The doctor pushes.

"I don't think, I know." He turns his back on her, the questions she asked breaking through his defensives. "It's the only way that makes sense," he admits to himself.

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	26. Discussions

AN: To clarify, in the previous Chapter the last sentence of Sherlock's writing is not a typo. He is referring to how his father looks at Mycroft, but couldn't blatantly state it...

Thanks guys! :D

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><p>Mycroft finally got around to listening to the audio from the night their father popped by. Listening carefully to the apparent distaste and disbelief in father's tone while addressing the youngest son; was surprising to say the least. He was no stranger to father's temper when he was upset, though the blind rage was always preferred than this. There was a clear difference with how father handled Sherlock, and it left Mycroft with a bad taste in his mouth.<p>

After listening to the recording a few times, he contemplated what was said. His mind moving the pieces around to discern where father would send Sherlock if he had a relapse, and discovering the answer to why Sherlock seemed to think he was alone in all of this. Mycroft reasoned that if mummy had any say in the matter, Sherlock would be carted off to the South of France and Tata Vie. Mother's sister being a retired nurse would be able to offer some sort of help as well as the location. There was no telling where father would send him if the decision was solely his.

The summer goes by quickly with the added distraction of his internship. What had started as a means to fund his habit had turned into a fascinating and distracting pursuit. It only happened a couple times, but a couple violent deaths brought in by the yard fully peaked Sherlock's interest. He found that his observation skills where well suited for finding various clues and along with the lab work; he worked out the cases.

Unfortunately the D.I.'s wouldn't take him seriously; it was Carl Powers all over again. Though one of the younger members of the force seemed to actually listen to him, he had clear promise in the profession and was quickly moving his way up the latter. Lestrade listened to whatever Sherlock had to offer and while not promising anything, assured him he'd put in a word. Both cases where indirectly solved by Sherlock and the internal pride was better than any high he'd achieved in the past.

Things were going well with Mycroft too, their relationship slowly veering back to the way it had been before Mycroft had left for university. Whenever the older man had time to spare he'd take the time to spend it with Sherlock. Touring the city and going out to the best restaurants, it was clear that Sherlock was returning to health and while still sinewy was no longer that skeletal figure he had been.

Sherlock and Mycroft where walking back from dinner, the younger man talking adamantly about how he had assisted with a murder case and out smarted the entire department.

"That's quite a hobby, Sherly," Mycroft smiled, "You could be an arm chair sleuth in your free time," he offered.

"I suppose," Sherlock shrugged, "Though I could make a career out of it."

"Have they paid you for your services?"

"No…" he admits.

"Well then," Mycroft hums in satisfaction.

"Money isn't important."

"It is if you have rent to pay and food to buy."

Sherlock falls silent in disagreement, not wanting to press the matter. "Do you have any meetings tomorrow 'Croft?"

"I may, I'll verify it upon our return. Why do ask?"

"It's Sunday," he offers in explanation.

"I'm sure I can find time for our little game brother," Mycroft assures; it had become a sort of ritual for the brothers to travel to a location and deduce the general population.

A week or so before Sherlock would be returning to university, Mr. Holmes paid his eldest a visit at work. Taking the time during his lunch break he came by, completely unannounced, and took Mycroft by complete surprise. The entire situation was a bit surreal as he stared across his own desk at his father sitting before him, in a type of role reversal.

"What brings you around father?" Mycroft questions politely, taking the tiniest of time out of his extremely busy schedule.

"I had a meeting in the area," Mr. Holmes begins business like, "How's Sherlock?"

"I'm sure Mummy has told you everything…"

"Yes, yes," the older man dismisses, "I wanted to get the firsthand account."

"I see," Mycroft stands, making like he's busy, "Sherlock is doing extremely well, with both his treatment and internship."

"He's cured then?" Mr. Holmes smiles in satisfaction.

"It's not quite so black and white I'm afraid…"

"What do you mean?" His brow creases.

"Addiction is tricky, from my understanding." Mycroft explains, "It's a constant battle and while the treatment is very effective, there's no telling when or why the cravings may return." He leans on the desk, "Hopefully when they do, Sherlock is bettered equipped to deal with them and seek out his support group."

"How likely is that?"

"Not sure the doctor's say it could be in a week or in a year, possibly longer if we're lucky."

"Hmm…" Mr. Holmes takes in the information.

"Now I've registered Sherlock for meetings while he's at school, and once a month he'll have his private sessions here in London."

"You'll be monitoring his adherence, then?"

"Yes sir, I'll know the moment he fails to miss a meeting or, God forbid…" Mycroft sighs.

"I see," Mr. Holmes rises from his chair, "Do keep me posted son."

"Of course," he nods as his father leaves the office, an uneasy feeling remaining in the room long after the man has left.

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	27. Back

Mycroft won't admit it, but he's actually sad to see Sherlock go. Rationally he knows Sherlock has to return to his studies and prepare for his life; but his residence seems a bit empty now or at least noticeably empty. If anything it should be returning to his normal state from before Sherlock came to stay, however his brother seemed to leave a kind of residual energy. In all honesty he'd miss seeing him.

Sherlock got settled back at school, the start of the new term brought with it a new dorm mate and more interesting classes. His new dorm mate was a nervous young man named Perkins or something, his most distracting feature being the tuft of ginger hair that sat awkwardly upon his head. The kid seemed extremely shy, much to Sherlock's pleasure, they each kept to themselves and didn't really bother each other.

He was doing really well actually, he hadn't had any cravings minus the cigarettes of course, but those where allowed. Mycroft tolerating that particular habit considering what the alternative was; ultimately Sherlock was trying to keep busy. The depression that usually followed after he was clean had been kept at bay so far, the worry was still however. Between boxing, the sessions, and extra lab work he did everything he could to just ignore delving too deep into himself.

It seemed to be working so far, but he still had some days where he didn't get out of bed. Choosing instead to curl up and die for the day, then go off again to smoke or wander the labs. Sherlock counted the days till he was due back in London for his monthly session with Dr. Northton. The therapy was still tedious, and he wouldn't admit it, but he looked forward to seeing Mycroft. London itself wasn't boring like university was or even home; it was alive, it had a pulse and Sherlock felt alive there.

"You know Sherly your birthday is next month about this time," Mycroft reminds, as they sip coffee on the park bench, noting the persons passing by.

"Is it?" Sherlock hums distractedly, "Man with the dog," he points out, "Recently obtained his pilot's license and…" he falters noticing an odd bruising pattern on the man's wrists, "Burns form the dog's lead?"

"Bondage fetish," The elder man interjects mildly, his brother's face contorting in disgust. "You know how mummy insists on celebrating such things."

"It's on a weekday."

"Yes, well, I was thinking since you'll have to come out again to see Dr. Northton, perhaps we could celebrate then." Mycroft offers, "Nose job, overbearing boyfriend insisted or he'd call of the wedding," he deduces the woman jogging by.

"Weddings in a couple weeks, explains the newer track suite and uncontrolled breathing," Sherlock nods, "You really think Mummy will come up?"

"I've already mentioned it; she thinks it's a wonderful idea," he admits, "Father too…"

"Oh," the younger man sips his beverage thoughtfully, "Perhaps he'll actually be on time this year," he adds lightly.

"Think about what you'd like to do Sherlock, and I'll make the arrangements." Mycroft tells him airily, ignoring the comment.

Back at university, Sherlock once again immerses himself in various activities. The boxing class is really only to occupy his time since he's advanced enough that he helps the professor with demonstrations. A fact that gets Sherlock roped in to a fight at the local pub. The professor insisting in order to show the class what it's like to spar outside of the class room, and that's how he crossed paths with Marcus.

Sherlock was surprised that the mere sight of the man made his skin start to itch, shaking the feeling out he focused his attention back to preparing for the match.

"Alright there Sherlock," his professor smiled, slapping him on the back. "Should be simple enough; show the boys how it's done."

The match is simple despite his opponent's size; he doesn't make it unscathed, but that wouldn't be any fun. Sherlock's victory is short lived, however, as he watches Marcus collect money from his win. The members of his class crowd around to offer him congratulations that fall on deaf ears, as he watches the man across the ring.

His professor checked him over, making sure is dazed state wasn't due to the abrasion he sustained during the blow that nicked his brow. The itching returning to his fore arms, he dislodges himself from the crowd and flees into the cool night. Sherlock takes off into a sprint running straight back to his dormitory.

Once he's in his room, he doesn't know what to do as he paces wildly. He wants a cigarette, but he's afraid of what might happen if he leaves the confines of the room. Sherlock takes a deep calming breath as he contemplates, his hands pressed together under his nose and his fingers twitching idly. In a quick burst he throws up the window and perches on the small ledge to make sure the smoke only goes out the window.

His hands shake as he lights the tobacco product and relishing that first inhale. Sherlock's mind races as he tries to swallow down his cravings, he bites his nail absently in thought. Two cigarettes later he caves and snatches up the phone and punching in the numbers with numb fingers, the ringing seeming to last ages; ignoring the fact that it's well after midnight now.

"Hullo," a tired voice mumbles from the other end.

""Croft?" Sherlock starts surprised at how he sounds and clearing his throat, as he unconsciously rocks back and forth.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?" The voice comes through loud and clear, all traces of sleep chased away.

"I don't know what to do," he admits in frustration, hating how weak this makes him.

"You didn't…." Mycroft leads, to make sure.

"No," he breathes, "Not yet…I want to," Sherlock mumbles, unsure if he should be divulging this. "It hurts…" he huffs, worrying his lip.

The admission makes Mycroft's blood run cold and it reminds him of a similar, yet different, call he received about five years ago from his brother. "Where are you now?"

"In my room..."

"Good," Mycroft nods, "Stay there, I'll have my people collect you."

"'Croft," Sherlock interjects.

"It's faster that way Sherly," he assures him, "I'll see you in an hour, ok?"

"Fine," he agrees.

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	28. Danger

Sherlock arrives at his brother's around 2 am. Mycroft greets him looking frazzled in his dressing gown and matching pajamas and quickly ushers him inside to the kitchen. The pair remains silent as Mycroft clanks about the kitchen preparing tea, Sherlock sitting on a stool at the counter. He's less anxious as he was before, though unsure what to do he decides to light a cigarette.

Once the tea is poured the elder man breaks the silence, "What brought this about?" He asks gently.

"I had a match," Sherlock starts touching his injured brow, "For class… I saw Marcus."

Mycroft stiffens at that, "Did he contact you?"

"No," he shakes his head exhaling nervously, "I left after the match… It's ridiculous, I saw him from afar for a minute and…" He looks thoughtfully into his cup of tea, swirling it in his slender hands.

"You did the right thing Sherlock, these things are delicate."

"Why does the right thing feel like weakness?" Sherlock wonders aloud, emotionlessly.

"It shouldn't," Mycroft informs him sternly, "Weakness would have been succumbing to temptation."

"Hmm…" the younger man contemplates that scenario for a beat. "You won't tell, will you?"

"There's nothing to tell," He assures him, "You have an appointment with Ms. Northton first thing," The elder Holmes glances at the clock, "I don't suppose sleep his in the cards tonight."

"Unlikely," Sherlock agrees, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"I think something stronger is in order, in that case." Mycroft slips from the stool to make a pot of coffee, glad that it's the weekend.

Mycroft accompanies him to the session, waiting in the tastefully decorated sitting area while Sherlock has his chat with the doctor. He can't help the mild feeling of failure that rattles through him, he knows it could have been worse; but it shouldn't have happened to began with.

"Have you been keeping up with your writing?" Ms. Northton asks.

"No, trying to keep busy…" Sherlock admits as he sits curled up in his chair.

"I want you to keep up with that, Sherlock. It's seems to be very beneficial for you."

"Very well," he nods.

"Perhaps typing them would help," Northton thinks for a beat, "I want you to email me your entries in between our monthly sessions." She procures one of her business cards and hands it to him. "You seem a bit defensive today Sherlock..."

"Do I?" Sherlock rumbles, quietly.

"You're posture and demeanor," The doctor points out, "I'm not cross with you," she assures him with a warm smile. "In fact you've shown remarkable will power, considering…"

"Mhmm…" He hums, looking at the floor.

"I know this may seem like a setback, but I assure you, you're making remarkable strides here Sherlock." Northton sighs, unsure if she's getting through to him, "It's unfortunate that there's no cure-all for these types of things, living day to day can be hard… it will get better, dear."

"I know," Sherlock shuffles, unfolding his long limbs.

The session concludes, a pensive Sherlock stepping out of the office with Ms. Northton close behind him. "Just a moment," she stops the brothers, "Mycroft mind if I have a word," she motions to her private office.

"Not at all," he nods.

"It'll only be a tick," She assures the younger man.

"Is everything alright doctor?" Mycroft implores once they're safely inside the small office.

"Yes, Sherlock is doing remarkably well," Northton motions for him to take a seat as she move around her desk. "However, I need to remind you that these instances aren't so cut and dry."

"What do you mean?"

"It's different for each individual, but these are what we like to call danger times. They tend to throw the person into a sort of crisis mode, where they can start to spiral and relapse." She informs him gently, remaining strictly professional. "Unfortunately we can only look for the signs and try to stop it in time, but it's up the individual."

"You said it's different for each case," Mycroft seeks clarification.

"Yes," she nods, "Sherlock may very well take this incident in stride and be fine for a good while, it's hard to say… Just be aware."

"Of course."

"Now, his birthday is coming up around our next scheduled session…"

"Yes, is that a concern?" Mycroft wonders aloud.

"It could be," Northton replies simply, "Certain times and significant days can be triggers for past behaviors."

"I'll keep an eye out then…"

"Wonderful," She smiles earnestly, "If you have concerns or notice anything that causes concern, feel free to contact me with them." They rise, shaking hands, Mycroft thanking the woman before returning to his brother.

Sherlock stays until Monday at Mycroft's insistence. He wanted to make sure Sherlock was allowed time to get his mind right before returning to university. While he might be able to notice things in an instant and pick things apart, it was important to for him to process everything in his own time. Turning information over and over until every possibility was explored and the original thing had been picked apart then reconstructed.

Once back at university, Sherlock was determined to delete that weekend from his mind. Throwing himself back into his busy routine, he withdrew himself from participating in off campus matches. It was a necessary precaution to avoid Marcus, even though he knew Mycroft had warned Marcus away from him; Sherlock didn't trust himself anymore. His main motivation for staying clean was to avoid the downfall his father cryptically laid out for him, he alone could handle this.

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	29. Betrayal

AN: My apologies for any heart break here in...

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><p>Sherlock wrote when he could, the distractions that kept him out of his head made it difficult for him to reflect on how he was feeling. There wasn't much to write about when your mind was off thinking about your latest experiment, various chemical compounds, and the rules of fencing. The time was flying past, hurtling towards his birthday.<p>

The approaching event, as inane as it was, caused a gnawing feeling to well up inside of him; taking hold of him for a good week prior to the day. Sherlock was in no way prepared for the family, the thought of mummy and father in London seemed to tarnish the beauty of the city. There place was at home outside of living organism of the metropolis, back where things are simple or dead. He contemplated canceling the weekend, but knew he couldn't.

Sherlock had an appointment he was allowed to miss and he didn't want to disappoint Mummy; or Mycroft for that matter. His father on the other hand, well he hoped a meeting would pop up and make him unavailable for the marking of another year his youngest spent in this transient world. Birthdays where unnecessary any way, twenty-one was hardly anything to get excited about.

Whether by fate or Mycroft's doing, Sherlock would spend the whole of Friday at his brothers without their parents. Saturday morning he'd have his appointment and that night they'd have his birthday dinner. Mycroft's residence was luckily large enough to accommodate and the event would be bearable.

"Mummy will come down early tomorrow," Mycroft informs him as they eat dinner. "She insisted."

"Very well," Sherlock sighed, playing with his soup.

"She'll arrive after your appointment of course, mentioned something about brunch and shopping…"

"That sounds tedious…"

"Yes, well, have to entertain her somehow," Mycroft jests, earning a smirk from the younger man as they continue to eat in silence. "Don't fret about father, Sherly," he adds, "Leave him to me," he assures with a nod.

"Mhmm…" Sherlock hums, "He's more your area anyway."

The next morning his appointment goes fairly well, Dr. Northton chastising him once again for neglecting his writings. Sherlock does his best to assure her he'll try to find the time to work on them, which isn't too much of a stretch considering university, is growing tiresome again. The conversation moves to his parents and he can't help the uneasiness he's still harboring. If he could go years without seeing them, he definitely wouldn't mind.

Mycroft and Sherlock get in the car to meet mummy at some fancy brunch place. The younger Holmes mentally preparing himself for the fussing and mildly concealed inquires into their romantic and personal lives.

"Mummy," Mycroft greets, kissing the woman on both cheeks in greeting.

"Mycroft darling, you better be taking care of yourself," she warns, knowing full well he works relentlessly.

"Of course, Mummy."

"Sherlock, cher!" Madame Holmes sweeps her youngest into a tight embrace. "You're looking quite well," She smiles watery, remembering what he looked like back at the hospital all those months ago, "Happy Birthday, bebe."

"Thank you, mummy," Sherlock nods awkwardly, grateful that the host shows up to take them to their table.

As soon as they're settled in the restaurant, Mummy starts in with the obvious prattle. "You know Mycroft; I had tea with Mrs. Byrne the other day," she begins happily.

"Oh, how are they?" He feigns sincerity, one of his many diplomatic skills, "Haven't seen the Byrne's in ages."

"She's doing as well as can be expected, broke her arm on the stairs, poor thing." Madame Holmes divulges, taking a sip of her tea, "Rosemary is opening another patisserie in London," She leads, "Still single…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes on his brother's behalf, never failing to convey his thoughts despite holding his tongue.

"Ah, yes she's quite the chef I understand," Mycroft glosses, "What's Miss Violet up to these days?" He smirks, tapping Sherlock roughly under the table with his foot and receiving a warning glare.

"She's doing some veterinary thing or other; she's gotten a bit pudgy if you ask me… Still asking after you, Sherlock..."

"I assure you I can do better," He pouts.

"Don't wait too long, or all the good ones will be snatched up," Madame Holmes reprimands, "And stop pouting, honestly." She shakes her head. "How was your internship?" She changes the subject, "It wouldn't hurt to call your mother sometimes, I have to hear everything from Mycroft."

"It was better than I thought, actually," Sherlock informs her. "I even solved a couple murders for the yard and…"

"Oh yes, that detective lark," she dismisses, "Quite an exciting hobby, shame you probably won't have time for it once you graduate and all." She sighs, "For the best really, you where always drawn to the macabre and that's hardly a real profession."

The rest of the day passes quickly; the shopping excursion that Madame Holmes insisted upon was just an excuse. The act clearly masking the supposed necessity of updating Sherlock's wardrobe, with the guise that mummy's buying him birthday presents; even though the young man would have been just as content not receiving anything.

For dinner, Sherlock wanted to keep it simple and had requested Alka's pancakes. He was pleased at the idea of forcing his parents to eat breakfast for dinner, something that was usually unheard of at the Holmes household and well worth flack. Unfortunately they never make it to dinner.

When the three of them return to Mycroft's, Mr. Holmes is there waiting for them with tea. The family sat down to join the patriarch in the parlor, politely ignoring the tension in the room that was emanating from each person for different reasons. The whole situation was making Mycroft feel like a guest in his own home, a feeling that was quite rare for him.

"How are things son?" Mr. Holmes asks his youngest poignantly, as he sips his tea.

"Fine," Sherlock offers a bit anxiously.

"Classes going well?"

"Yes, quite," he nods looking for any type of out from the conversation.

"Excelling, if I do say so," Mycroft interjects pleasantly.

"Extra-curriculars?" Mr. Holmes ignores his eldest.

"I've picked up fencing… again," Sherlock informs him unsure of where this is going.

"What's the meaning of this Sherrinford?" Madame Holmes questions her husband sternly.

"He's lying."

"Pardon?"

Without a word the man procures an all too familiar black case from the breast pocket of his suite and drops it open on the table, revealing its contents.

"No," Madame Holmes gasps.

"Father," Mycroft starts, not liking this one bit, "Where did those come from."

"You didn't know…These where hidden in his room here," Mr. Holmes reveals with false bravado.

"I'm clean," Sherlock breathes, reality finally catching up to him.

"You stop this right now 'Ford," Madame Holmes orders, fighting back her tears, "You hear me, right now!"

"We can't ignore this, dear," He enunciates, keeping his eyes trained on his youngest.

"He says he's clean 'Ford…you can't…"

"Mycroft please escort your mother to the other room, she's becoming hysterical."

Mycroft stares at his father for a beat before robotically doing as he's told, for lack of clarity in this unreal situation.

"I'm clean" Sherlock tries again in vain, starring at the syringes.

"Don't lie, you're probably high right now," Mr. Holmes shakes his head, "And in front of your mother…" he sighs in disgust. "Mycroft was right, you aren't cured… you had your chance, Sherlock."

The young man felt like the world was crumbling around him and he was powerless to stop it, he was losing everything and the betrayal of his father's words pierced his defenses. He couldn't believe Mycroft betrayed his trust like that, "I'm CLEAN!" Sherlock snaps, forcefully rising to his feet. "I hid those ages ago, I'm doing well!"

"Calm down," Mr. Holmes orders him getting to his feet as well, "You have no say in this anymore Sherlock."

"Why don't you listen…"He starts in frustration, scrubbing his hands through his hair, his mind racing as he finally breaks, "Fine!" Sherlock bellows, snatching up the prepared syringe and stomping off, "You want me to fail!" Mycroft finally rejoins them to catch the previous statement, his heart sinking at the scene in front of him.

"Sherlock stop this right now, I will not stand for it!" Mr. Holmes follows after trying to head him off.

"Then I'll fail!" He slams the door to the toilet in the other man's face, locking it behind him.

Mycroft stops further down the hall, swallowing hard as he watches his father pound furiously on the door. "What have you done," he breathes in abject horror, everything he helped Sherlock work for going down the drain as they speak.

"Open this door this instant," Mr. Holmes shouts uselessly as he continues to pound.

"Go to hell!" Sherlock shouts back.

"When you're quite finished I want you in the car, you're gone mister!"

Eventually the door is thrown open, Sherlock thrumming with ire as he stares at the man before him. His shirt sleeve rolled up with a fresh mark on his skin. "Happy Birthday to me," He spits, tossing the used syringe at his father and stomping down the hall. A look of betrayal crosses his features briefly as he regards his brother, "I hope you two are very happy together," he insinuates, pushing past him to the awaiting vehicle.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft calls uselessly, the slam of the front door his only reply.

* * *

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	30. Damage Control

Father leaves briefly to instruct the car to take Sherlock to airport, all the necessary arrangements already made; which included a guard and a mild sedative. When the man returns to the parlor, he finds two pairs of eyes staring at him accusingly. Mr. Holmes huffs indignantly as he helps himself to the port on the sideboard.

"You ruin everything," Madame Holmes accuses, a tremble in her voice as she crosses the room to face her husband.

"It was for his own good," he enunciates slowly.

The woman's gaze hardens, "On his birthday," she shakes her head.

"He'll thank me later."

Madame Holmes slaps the man hard across the face, "You mark my words Sherrinford Holmes," She warns coldly, "If you don't make this right…" Her eyes flutter, looking up as she holds back her tears so she can get her words out. "You lost your son today." With that statement she sweeps dramatically from the room.

"Surely you understand Mycroft," Mr. Holmes appeals to his eldest after a beat. "You where right all along…"

"I was right?" Mycroft asks with incredulity.

"You said he wasn't cured, that he'd have cravings… I'm fixing it."

"You twisted my words," he snaps, realization dawning on him. "It's always going to be a constant struggle for him, there's no "fixing" that!" He sucks in a calming breathe, "Perhaps if you actually listened…"

"Stop it," Mr. Holmes sneers, swishing his drink, "You sound just like him."

"Good," Mycroft smirks, raising himself to his full height. "I think for the first time I'm starting to see exactly how you've made Sherlock feel, for god knows how long."

"Mycroft…" he starts, "Really…"

"I think you should leave."

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Holmes stutters in confusion.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Mycroft states coolly, "You are not welcome here."

The elder man stares dumbly for a beat before realizing the seriousness of the situation. He drains the dregs of his alcohol and storms out of the premises. Mycroft pinching the bridge of his nose before scrubbing his hand over his face in hurt and frustration; what started off as a pleasant weekend had now become the worst in the history of their family, even counting when Grand-mere past away.

He pours himself a glass of port to calm his nerves, taking his father's glass and throwing it violently into the fire place. Mycroft taking his time to collect himself and process the events of the past hour, until he's calm enough to seek out his mother.

Madame Holmes is in what had become Sherlock's bedroom while he stayed at Mycroft's. His belongings ransacked from their father's search, Mycroft feeling foolish for not thinking of conducting a search himself; something that would have prevented the whole incident. Clearing that from his thoughts for now, he watches as his mother picks up various items around the room.

"He's gone," Mycroft informs her about father.

"He left?" Madame Holmes implores.

"I kicked him out," he states with absolution.

"Serves him right," she folds Sherlock's new clothes, occupying her attention from the tears that are waiting to escape. "I thought I'd pack his belongings, since…" Her lip trembles as her resolve cracks.

"Do you know where he's being sent?" Mycroft questions, his well hidden heart hurting at seeing his mother like this.

"Oui," she offers, slipping unconsciously to French. "Was he really clean Mycroft?" She turns to him, her eyes pleading.

His frown deepens as he formulates his answer, his eyes down cast as he nods, "Since the hospital."

"Oh, mon bebe," Madame Holmes laments, inhaling sharply and sitting on the bed. She retrieves her handkerchief as resolve finally breaks.

Mycroft stands awkwardly at the door, wanting nothing more than to break down with her; but knowing he needed to be the strong one here. "What's…?" He starts, his voice cracking slight and forcing him to clear his throat, "What's to become of Sherlock?"

"Your father," she gasps between sobs, "He said…He said France would be best," She tries to calm herself to speak, "Vie was kind enough to agree, get him away from all this, but this was helping and now…" A new wave of tears tumble from the regal woman, "I fear this we've lost him forever."

They share the silence, both their minds wandering as they deal with every heart breaking thought that they can conjure up. "I need to get these things packed," she sighs getting to her feet and resuming her composure though her face is still red and tear stained. "It won't do to have him arriving without his things in tow."

"Why is father…?" Mycroft starts, unsure what exactly he's asking; but knowing he needs an answer.

"You know how your father is," She sighs tersely, busying herself.

"Apparently not," he huffs under his breath, knowing he wouldn't be get a straight answer tonight.

A part of his mind toying with the idea that Father may have suspected his mother of being unfaithful; despite the fact that it seemed extremely improbable since Sherlock had the same eyes as their father. Though when doubt was planted it was just as hard to kill an idea, the mind was a powerful thing.

* * *

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	31. Waking up

Sherlock comes to slowly, his eyes fluttering against the bright sunshine that's streaming in the semi familiar room. He closes his eyes against the harsh light, allowing time for his mind to power up before his body does. The memories from Saturday hitting him instantly, but he has no clue what day it might be. Sherlock moves a bit, groaning as the haze from the sedative and drugs clears; more upset that he didn't even get to enjoy the high. Another thing his father denied him, he thought venomously.

Sighing, he opens his eyes to adjust to the light and takes in the room around him. France, he registers, noting the familiar smells and sights of Tata Vie's. She's redecorated since last time he was here, Sherlock notes before realizing that it had been at least five years. He stares up at the ceiling as the reality of it all soaks in and the itching for a cigarette becomes too strong to ignore.

Sherlock sits up, ignoring his protesting muscles, noticing that he had been stripped down to his pants. He rolls his shoulders, determining that he'd been out for at least a day by the look of the new mark on his arm. The sight of it brought the failure into stark realization, as if a sign of the relapse was tattooed on his forehead. Starring at it, he hangs his head and pushed down the bile that threatens to rise up.

Finding his sleep pants and dressing gown he makes himself somewhat presentable in order to face his aunt; hopefully find some cigarettes, since Mummy probably didn't pack any and he didn't want to deal with that right now. Padding down the stairs he hears noises from the kitchen, his Aunt obviously speaking to someone on the phone in French. Sherlock sits on the back stairs and listens in on the conversation.

"He's been out Marion," She sighs, "After what you've told me, I'd be surprised if he didn't lash out… after what 'Ford did…" Vie shakes her head in irritation, listening to her sister. "Of course I'll call you… We can't forget that this is about Sherlock's well being…What about Christmas Mar'?" She huffs in frustration. "Again, we'll just have to see how he's doing..." There's more rattling through the cupboards, "Alright, alright…" The women hang up after saying their goodbyes. "You can come out mon petite," Vie calls.

Sherlock sheepishly, steps out from around the stair well.

"The stairs creak something awful," She explains with a warm smile. "Now I'm making breakfast… you go sit over here," Vie guides him to the chair; "There's a present for you on the table, there." The younger man looks to see a carton of cigarettes, smirking as he removes a pack from the box. "It's to share, mind," she informs him sternly.

"Thanks," he mumbles lighting the much needed tobacco product and relishing the smoke.

A pleasant silence over takes the kitchen, the only noise coming from the clanking of cookery as Vie flits about. Sherlock once again lost in his own thoughts, starring out the window as he smokes absently. His thumb brushes his lips, his mind wandering to what life will be like here and how long he'll be forced to stay.

Sherlock's startled from his reverie when his cigarette is plucked from his long fingers and replaced with a fork; a plate of food set in front of him. "Bon appetite," Vie smiles, sitting beside him as the silence returns.

Sherlock pushes the eggs around his plate while his aunt scrutinizes him with blatant concern. "Still playing with your food I see…" She chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm sure you remember the rule."

He nods gently, "At least half of everything or you can't leave the table," he mumbles somewhat fondly.

"Tres bien!" Vie smiles, "Good to see you haven't forgotten your dear tata."

"Mhmm," Sherlock hums, eating some of his food. "So…" he leads, his head bowed as he regards his plate.

"You're wondering what's to become of you while you're here," She starts, her tone serious. "Well you have free reign of the house, within reason of course." Vie studies the dark haired young man beside her, "It's a bit too nippy for the beach I'm afraid, but you where never one for the sand where you…" She smiles fondly at the memories. "One of my colleagues will pop round once a week to meet with you and you're to keep up with your emails to Dr. Northton."

"I see," he states quietly in his deep voice.

"Some of your things arrived the other day," Vie entices him, "Your violin, books and the like… and there's the library here of course."

"How long?"

"Depends on you, I suppose…"

Sherlock nods dejectedly, "May I be excused?" he asks, his plate only half empty.

"Of course," She agrees with concern as her youngest nephew rises grabbing a couple packs of cigarettes and retreating back up stairs.

Back up stairs Sherlock opens his window to the brisk air of fall, he chain smokes out the portal as he closes himself off. For the first time in long time he feels like an alien, a stranger in his own skin and not a part of the world in which he finds himself. As a distraction he begins to go through his luggage, unzipping the large sack to find his new clothes some books and what appears to be a human skull. The last item intrigues him as he studies it, finding it hard to discern who had placed it with his possessions since the only explanation would be Mycroft. He doesn't want to think about that, however, so he places the skull on his night stand.

Idly he starts to think that at least he won't be alone here as he casts a look at the skull that seems to stare into his very being. Sherlock curls up on the wide window sill, continuing to smoke as his brain whirls. The internal workings deciding an emotional purge is in order to clear the slate and start over, blocking out what's unnecessary. It's clear he will have nothing but free time now anyway and he vows to figure it all out; live his life as himself, regardless of everyone else.

* * *

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	32. France

October is spent in a lethargic mess of anger and tears. Sherlock expels and expresses every stitch of feel that he'd pent up over a lifetime, then promptly deleting them from his repertoire. Vie is beside herself for the whole of the month; calling her sister just to have someone to share the helplessness with. Sherlock refusing any sort of consoling and only divulges what he must to the therapists, and in the end he's left empty and raw.

The days pass by in a painfully slow march, Sherlock finding less and less to occupy the never halting time. He finds barley a cause to get dressed everyday and just moves about the seaside home like a sort of silent specter. Not that he actually notices any of this, too busy growing frustrated with mundane boredom of everyday life. There are only so many experiments one can conduct when their supply is limited to house hold chemicals.

Sherlock's skull offers some company, giving him "someone" to talk to who's completely objective and devoid of expressions. It reminds him of the comfort that his stuff creature gave him from when he was younger, inspiring him to mentally name it Pierre. Some day's he doesn't even bother leaving his room; lying in bed as he contemplates his future. Ruminating over whether or not he has one or if he's failed before he even had a chance.

"Maybe it's hard to see the future when you don't have one…" He states aloud to Pierre, the statured bone remaining as impassive as ever. "What do you know anyway? You're dead… for at least ten years, I'd say," he snaps at the object. "Don't suppose you could divulge what that's like… dying." He picks up the skull rolling it in his hands, "I bet it's placid, uneventful…dull." Sherlock sighs, "Not much different from this then," he concedes, dropping the bone on to the bed and moving to the window.

It's raining today, and he couldn't be happier. The abysmal weather reminding him of the one place he wants to be above all others. Sherlock's not sure what possesses him to do it, originally opening the window in order to smoke; instead he climbs out into the inclement weather to scale to the roof. His dressing gown billowing behind him in the wind as the rain starts to soak him.

The view is amazing from this perspective, utilizing the weather vane he looks off towards the north wistfully as if he could see all the way to London. It's blissful in a way, completely unaware of the cold and yet basking in the November rain. Sherlock starts to chuckle at the lunacy of his actions, knowing that the casual observer would think him a mad man; then again, who's to say he's not. He sees everything, but feels nothing and it's beautiful.

Sherlock lays on the roof, relishing the peacefulness when he hears the sound of a car come up the drive. He sits up and watches as a familiar figure exits the vehicle and strides into the house. With an audible grown, he lays back down for a beat; then carefully returns to the bedroom. Expecting to be called down, he waits; but his aunt's voice never comes so he goes and investigates.

"How is he?" Mycroft's voice implores as they take tea in the parlor.

"A shadow, a fantome," Vie offers sadly. "He plays sad music at all hours, talks to that horrid skull of his, hardly sleeps or eats…" She sighs.

"Your colleague says Sherlock's doing well."

"Oui," she agrees, "I think it's this place, cher."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asks.

"There's nothing for him to set his mind to here…yes he's away from the problem, but he's also away from life."

"You think it's killing him?" His brow creases in earnest.

"This is no life for him, Mycroft." Vie states carefully, "Your father can't hide him here forever…"

"I see…"

Sherlock's heard enough as he climbs back up the stairs quickly, avoiding the ones that creak and returning to his room. Deftly picking up his violin and ignoring the fact that he's still soaked from the prior excursion, he begins to play.

Vie and Mycroft look up as the music drifts to them, the tune somber and harsh like an angry funeral march.

"See what I mean?" Vie shakes her head as she pours more tea.

"Mummy wants him home for Christmas," Mycroft informs his aunt tiredly, "I don't think that's wise."

"I can't help, but agree…" She admits, "However, he needs something to set his light upon Mycroft… It's growing dimmer and dimmer," she sniffs wistfully.

"I'll see what I can arrange."

"Your father," Vie starts, mulling over her words. "I never saw someone change so much…"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft asks, hoping for some sort of insight.

"It's not place," She dismisses, rising to her feet. "I'll fetch him, shall I…"She excuses herself.

Climbing the stairs she follows the music to its apex and raps on the closed door, "Sherlock." She opens the door, "Your brother's her, mon…" She stops at the sight of the soaked man turning to face her. "Sherlock," Vie admonishes, "What have you been up to?" She gasps, noticing the open window and connecting the dots. "You were out in the rain, do you have a death wish!"

"I don't know… do I?" Sherlock replies flippantly, turning away from the flustered woman. "I don't want to see him," he punctuates with some angry cords.

"You don't have to see him if you don't want to, but you will change out of those clothes," She orders sternly, "At least to save my carpet you're soiling."

"Fine," he concedes, ignoring any modesty and proper behavior and starts to strip out of his clothes.

"And take a shower," Vie adds, quickly taking her leave, closing the door at the infuriating young man and returning to her other nephew.

"He was out in the rain," She complains as soon as she returns to the room. "It's like he nothing registers anymore if it's not deemed important."

"Try not fret, tata," Mycroft assures her, rising and re-buttoning his jacket. "I'm making arrangements as we speak."

"You can't be off so soon, you just got here."

"I'm afraid I must," he laments, "Duty calls and such." Vie walks him to the door, "Thank you," he imparts with meaning.

Vie embraces him quickly, "Take care of yourself Mycroft."

As soon as he's back in London Mycroft sets about setting something. His main focus is to bring Sherlock back to himself.

* * *

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	33. Surprise

Sherlock remains at Aunt Vie's throughout December, knowing full well back home they're having the annual Christmas party without him; which is fine. What he did count on was that Mycroft and Mummy would show up on Christmas day and stay until the New Year. Christmas Eve was spent quietly, Sherlock helping his aunt prepare dinner and the two of them played scrabble by the fire for the whole night. It wasn't anything special, but Vie was pleased none the less; even though her nephew hadn't spoken a word the whole day.

In the morning, Vie sets about making brunch since they had slept in a bit. Sherlock sits stoically in the kitchen, languidly blowing smoke as he starred out the window. The lithe figure noticeably stiffens when a sleek black car pulls up the drive and reveals his mother and sibling.

Vie peers out the window in surprise, "What on earth…" She starts, fixing her hair and making sure her dressing gown is tied as she sweeps to the door.

Sherlock contemplates bolting upstairs, but remains impassively smoking in the kitchen as there voices carry towards him.

"Surprise!" Madame Holmes greets her sister.

"Marion! Surprise indeed," Vie states in mild shock.

"Joyeux Noel," Mycroft offers.

"Come in, come in," she instructs them, "You're just in time for brunch."

"Oh, Lovely," Madam Holmes smiles taking in her family home, "It has been ages," she laments.

"Ah oui," Vie agrees, "I see what it takes to bring you here," she shakes her head as she hangs up their coats

"Vie," she warns her sister.

"I wish I'd known you where coming," She smoothes, "I'm quite unprepared." She leads them to the kitchen, pleased to see that Sherlock hadn't scampered off.

"Sherlock," Madame Holmes smiles swooping down on her youngest and wrapping him in a bone crushing embrace.

"Mummy," Sherlock breathes.

"Mon bebe," She pulls back taking in his appearance, "Vie, are you not feeding my son?"

Vie looks up over the counter at the accusation as she sets about making food, "It must be the French diet," She jests.

"I can see that," Madame Holmes removes the cigarette heading towards Sherlock's mouth and stubs it out in the dish, with a disapproving look.

"How are you Sherlock?" Mycroft asks gently.

The silence that follows is deafening as Sherlock ignores the older man, his fingers idly drumming on the table top.

"Sherlock," his mother implores.

"I'm alive," he rumbles quietly.

"How long have you planning this, Christmas miracle?" Vie changes the subject with a jab at her sister's lack of visits.

"It was a whim, actually," Madame Holmes begins, "I couldn't bare the thought of you two all alone down here." She pats Sherlock's arm fondly.

"How ever did you manage that?" she wonders.

"One of the perks of the job," Mycroft smirks pleasantly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he procures another cigarette to light and lights up for a distraction.

"Must you?" Madame Holmes sighs, unable to hold her tongue, "At least not in front of me."

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock huffs expelling the tobacco smoke from his lungs.

"Consider it a courtesy for your dear mummy," She pleads.

"Dull," he breathes rising from his seat.

"Where're you off to?" His mother prods.

"I either stay or smoke and since I can't do both…" Sherlock states clinically, waiting a beat before jogging up the stairs.

"You better be back down for brunch," Vie calls after him.

"Why don't you go talk to him," Madame Holmes asks her oldest warmly, her motives clear.

"I do not believe he wishes to speak to me," Mycroft admits.

"Nonsense," she admonishes, "I'm sure he'd love the company."

"Very well," he sighs, rising from his seat to leave the two women to their discussion.

He finds his brother in his room by the window smoking absently, "Sherlock," he starts. The younger man not even acknowledging his presences, Mycroft sighs and sits on the bed. "I'm sorry Sherly," he studies his hands awkwardly, "Father, he… well, he misunderstood a conversation," he states delicately, "I never betrayed your confidence Sherlock, and anything that happened to hurt you was never my intention."

The room is deathly quiet save for the sharp inhale and exhale as Sherlock smokes.

"I've made arrangements for you to return to London in the New Year," he informs him, "Found you a nice little flat, but it'll be up to you to find work."

"What's father think of this?" Sherlock finally speaks his tone full of venom.

"That hardly matters," Mycroft returns briskly, "This about you, not him."

Sherlock nods in contemplation of the offer.

"When you're ready of course, I don't want to force you."

"I'm more than ready," he admits freely, though his guard is still up.

Sherlock's not sure how to process Mycroft's admission and apology. While it's clear that it's sincere, the betrayal is still clutched inside him and he doesn't have enough data. Figuring it's easier to continue on uncaring. The younger man acts as if none of it matters; but keeps the file marked M open for proof and earned redemption; as hard as that may be to earn.

Mycroft knows that his weak words won't be enough, but hopes that the arrangements he's made will be a step in the right direction. It's odd knowing that you played a role in changing someone so fully. Rationally, he knows Sherlock will never be that same little kid he was growing up. The traces of that innocence will only ever be a fleeting echo on his brother's face, but he can't help but think of him like that. It should have died that day he caught Sherlock using or when he stopped being a kid really; perhaps that's the curse of the big brother. No matter the years or events that take place within them, the memories of your younger siblings will always taint the reality of who they have become.

"Boy's time to eat!" Vie's voice carries up, breaking both men from their reveries.

* * *

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	34. Breakfast

The week spent with Mummy and Mycroft is extremely draining for Sherlock; a fact that only Madame Holmes seems to be unaware of, as she insists they spend every moment together. Luckily Mycroft and Vie step in for a distraction, that allows Sherlock some much needed alone time. It's odd that his mother seems more hovering and insistent now that he's older than she ever did when he was small.

Sherlock comes to the realization that while he doesn't hate his mother, they will probably never understand each other. Though Madame Holmes will try her hardest, some things will never be. It's something he realized from the annoying letters and useless packages she'd send when he was at university and even now. He figures it's the fear she's harboring over losing him forever; but that's unlikely, in a literal senses anyway.

What he really longs for his freedom and while he knows his brother will always keep an eye on him, he'd like nothing more to than to extract himself from their lives. Nothing as morbid as killing himself, or anything like that, the world is far too interesting and death far too final. Though a good disappearance on the other hand would work nicely; though they'd probably look for him, he rationalizes.

What makes there stay through the New Year even harder is the fact that in a few weeks he'll finally get to leave and the time is ticking by dreadfully slow. Plus, Mummy seems to be on a war path to make sure he and even Vie aren't able to smoke much. A situation, that only makes them become stressed out and crave the tobacco products even more. On New Year's Eve, he sneaks out the kitchen door; braving the cold for a much needed cigarette.

"Oh, mon petite," Vie breathes in relief, startled, "I thought it was your ma-ma," she chuckles around her own cigarette.

"I don't believe she's awake yet," Sherlock informs her stiffly, trying to ignore the chill in the air.

"She means, well…" She sighs, rationalizing away her frustration.

"It's your house," he states simply.

"Oui," Vie nods in contemplation, "I heard the good news."

"Hmm…" Sherlock hums exhaling smoke.

"I want you to promise me something Sherlock," she states seriously, "When you go back, you find what you want and you pursue it, no matter what anyone else says, you understand? You want to solve crimes you solve crimes, just take care of yourself."

"I will tata," he nods thoughtfully starring at the ground.

"Carpe diem," Vie instructs fondly, stroking the side of his face to get him to look at her.

Sherlock offers up a tentative smile, the older woman crushing him into a brief hug, "Merci," he breathes.

"I'm going to miss you," she sighs, "Perhaps not at first…" She jests warmly.

"You're stuck with me for a week or two more after those fools leave," He reminds her.

"That is my sister you are talking about," Vie swats with fake menace. "Come mon petite," she drops the last of her cigarette on the ground and grinds it out, "It's too cold out here… you'll catch your death." Sherlock flicks the butt of his cigarette and follows her back into the kitchen. "What to help make the crepes?" She offers, "You have to promise not poison them."

Sherlock smirks, remembering when Mycroft and him came out for the summer and Sherlock "innocently" experimented on the crepes he made, "I've unfortunately left all my poisons at home this time," he hops up onto the counter, actually enjoying the peaceful morning with his aunt.

Mycroft comes down shortly after Vie starts to make the breakfast, Sherlock picking at the fruit as he "assists" her from his perch. The tension between the brothers is still noticeable, but they mask it with forced politeness.

"Good morning," Mycroft yawns in greeting, smiling pleasantly as he deduces what's to be for breakfast.

"'Morning cher," Vie greets, handing Mycroft the plates to set the table.

"Good thing you're making crepes today, tata," Sherlock starts snidely, "Mycroft's diet starts tomorrow."

"Sherlock," his aunt chides.

"I'll have you know, I've given that up," Mycroft informs him airily.

"What?" the younger man questions, "Dieting? Finally going to revert back to a rotund 25 stones..."

"I've given up resolutions," He snaps.

"Is that wise?" Sherlock mocks concern, "I believe you're gaining…"

"At least I eat," Mycroft retaliates, as a berry is tossed at him.

"Stop this bickering," Madame Holmes orders, coming into the kitchen. "I will not stand for it," she warns.

"Sorry mummy," they say in unison before flicking fruit at each other behind her back with matching glares.

The four of them sit down for breakfast eating with minimal chatter, just the clank of silverware.

"These are delicious, Vie." Madame Holmes praises.

"Merci, Sherlock helped," Vie smiles, winking at her nephew.

"Glad to hear it…Are these boysenberries?"

"No it's poison-berry," Sherlock smirks, as Mycroft and Vie chuckle a bit.

"Well I don't think that's funny," Madame Holmes snaps indignantly misinterpreting the joke. "Forgive me if I find it hard to laugh about that, quiet yet," she sniffs, earning looks from both Mycroft and Vie.

"That's not…" Vie starts trying to explain and restore the mood that was sucked from the room.

Sherlock stiffens, all humor gone as he takes in his mother's meaning. "Excuse me," he huffs darkly, pushing his plate away as he leaves the table and stomps off.

* * *

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	35. London

Sherlock's new flat is tiny, but perfect. Mycroft leaves him with cupboards full of groceries and a pleasant reminder to find a job, any job. The first thing he does, however, is explore the city. He sets out that day seeing everything he can and getting a general feel for the place. When he spent the summer he wasn't allowed to explore like this and the freedom of it was amazing. It took about a week to thoroughly investigate London, exploring both day and night, though deeper knowledge he knew would come with more time.

During his exploration he sharpened his observation skills to make sure he hadn't become rusty over the months. His sharp eyes feasted over every detail for want of stimulation that France hadn't offered him. It was hard to say how long Mycroft would give him to find a job, but he had research to do and cases to study.

Taking Aunt Vie's words to heart he followed his current interest and delved into the world of crime. Sherlock read up on everything he could, but it wasn't enough. He took on some minor cases, cheating husbands and the like. Even sneaking around the Bart's morgue and laboratories in order to study and procure things.

Sherlock came home late one night, still wearing some "borrowed" scrubs as his disguise; his heightened senses alerting him to the familiar presence, sitting uncomfortably with in his little flat. "This going to be a habit…Brother?" He asks, going about his business.

"I could ask you the same thing, Sherlock." Mycroft starts, "How's the job hunt?"

"It's coming along…"

"Save it," he dismisses.

"So…not a social call, then," Sherlock offers flippantly, making himself a coffee, "Pity."

"I'm here to inform you that, you'll no longer need to sneak into the Bart's morgue," Mycroft regally intones.

"Oh?"

"Yes, congratulations, you are now the night orderly, unless you wish to return to school…" He leads earning a dismissive look from the younger man. "Didn't think so…"

"I get paid to show people their loved ones bodies…" Sherlock clarifies languidly, "Tedious," he breathes.

"No need to thank me," Mycroft rises, checking the time. "You start Monday," he states heading to the door. "Mummy would love to hear from you, by the way…"

"What else is new," The younger Holmes scoffs.

"Do keep out of trouble," he nods taking his leave.

Sherlock's job is horrible, but he tries it out. Mostly to have access to the bodies for scientific inquiry, and to keep himself busy; but after a month or it grows tiresome. Then he gets sacked, which is not much of a surprise since he'd been written up a few times for being too cold and clinical to the families. It was a bit baffling, wasn't that what you expected from a glorified secretary at the morgue.

Though he knew Mycroft would be alerted about his loss of job, he went out to find ways to obtain rent money. As silly and trite as it was he took his violin to the tube station and surprisingly made a descent amount of notes and figured a couple days of this would take care of the boring rent situation.

While playing a piece by Sarasate when a man drops a large note in his case, looking up he sees the smarmy face of his brother. Without a word, Sherlock stops playing and packs up his instrument.

"Really Sherlock," Mycroft starts following his brother out of the crowded station. "You can't deign to find yourself a proper job."

"I'm taking care of it Mycroft," Sherlock grits out, "Don't worry, if I decide world domination is my forte I know where to find you." He pushes through the pack and escapes from his brother.

"Sherlock," the older man calls after him in exasperation. "That went well," he sighs. Shaking his head he heads towards his waiting car, he was supposed to collect the younger man for lunch with mummy.

The woman is clearly surprised when he shows up alone, "Where's your brother?" She asks anxiously.

"I'm afraid he won't be coming," he joins her at the table. "He sends his apologies."

"Whatever could he be up to?" Madame Holmes wonders idly.

"Making money," Mycroft states hiding a smirk at the half truth he told her.

"Well that something…" They're quite for a beat before she asks the big question, "He's not…?"

"No, he's still clean and keeping busy."

"I'm so glad you're able to keep an eye on him, you know how I worry." Madame Holmes laments, airily, "And god forbid he talk to his mummy, I only gave him life." She complains.

* * *

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	36. Brother

Sherlock seems to be doing well, helping out on cases with that Lestrade bloke; he'll probably be made D.I. soon, if Mycroft's intell is anything to go by. The elder Holmes flips through his report for the past month, while pleased with the results he's also worried. Work is getting hectic and if that rumored crisis crops up he's going to have to pull some people. That means Mycroft's ever watchful eye on his brother will not be as strong.

It's mid July before the foretold crisis hits, but Mycroft take solace in the fact that Sherlock's been somewhat thriving the past few months. After a chat with Lestrade he's confident that the slackened surveillance won't be a problem. Unfortunately, the elder man receives word about some unsavory dealings concerning his brother, and by August Sherlock is nowhere to be found.

There's no way Mycroft can pull himself away from work, therefore relying on his underlings to try and find his brother. While no one's really seen Sherlock, his rent is continually paid and his flat seemingly visited every so often. Those two facts the only solace Mycroft has in knowing his brother is alright; by the time Sherlock's birthday rolls around again, the oldest has had enough.

Mycroft was growing tired of having to constantly make excuses to mummy and the worry was taking its toll on him. Sherlock wasn't even answering his phone, which was clearly still functional and on. The number of messages and text Mycroft sent was bordering obsessive, but he didn't know what else to do. Everything was piling up and to make matters worse father had become ill and it was unclear what was going to happen.

Lost in thought as he left the Diogenes club after a peaceful supper, he walks the familiar and short path to his residence, as is his habit. Mycroft's mind spun through the various scenarios of what Sherlock was up to and the probability of father passing.

"Spare change," A voice asks, pulling him out of his thoughts, Mycroft ignores the beggar, surprised that the man was in his neighborhood. "Spare change?"

"No," Mycroft answers the persistent homeless parson, walking away more briskly.

"I see it how it," the man calls, "Ya fink you're too good to help ya own family, eh mate?"

At that Mycroft turns, to regard the man critically, the hood of his jumper obscuring his face. "Sherlock?" He breathes, ignoring the ridiculousness of the situation. The member of the homeless offers up a cheeky wink before taking off down the street, "SHERLOCK," Mycroft shouts after him, feeling stupid for not noticing his brother; regardless of the skillful disguise.

The insufferable prat, Mycroft thinks to himself as he stomps up the steps to his door. Joining the ranks of the homeless, for what cause… he cannot for the life of him fathom his brother's motives here. At least Sherlock's alive, though he wasn't able to tell how he was doing from the brief encounter… did he seem thinner, he puzzled as he tried to recall.

He needed a holiday, he decided as he collapsed into the arm chair in his study. Between the job, Sherlock and now the situation with his father; he felt like he was being stretched, pulled thin into many directions. In a way he envied Sherlock, sure he had his own demons; everyone does, however he never had to be the responsible one.

If father dies, there will just be more responsibility added to his plate; not like he isn't already shouldering a good deal of it. Especially since the "intervention" or whatever their father was calling it. Perhaps Sherlock's path to self discovery is a good thing, with the lack of surveillance he's been able to require he has found there's less to worry over when you don't know. Therein lies the problem, it's the not knowing that bothers him to a degree, mostly because not knowing feels like he stopped caring.

Which, rationally, he knows his ridiculous and untrue. His mind drifts lazily to the fantasy of him stepping away from his family, or just not having one to deal with. The whole illusion is always the same; he's married to a prim quiet woman who fits into his political image. It switches back and forth as to whether there are children or not depending on his mood.

On further contemplation the whole fantasy is a lot like an ad for the 1950's and involves cocktail parties and some sense of normalcy. A woman, that mummy would approve of and fit in with the family. Which in these scenarios, where Sherlock less; it was probably a buried feeling he harbored since childhood. It's silly though, he has no time for such things and even if he did he's not sure he'd know what to do with it and deleting Sherlock completely was a bit unfair. Perhaps there was something wrong with them.

Mycroft sees Sherlock again at the club, still wearing the same disguise as before. The two of them sitting in silence in the only room conversation is permitted.

"You look unwell," he informs the younger man, pouring him a small portion of brandy.

"I've been busy gathering data," Sherlock informs him taking the offered glass, "I see there's a crisis, who is it this time? Korea?"

"Father's dying," Mycroft states without preamble.

"We all are."

"This is serious Sherlock, I know your relationship with him is tumultuous, but…"

"But what Mycroft?" Sherlock snaps as if the whole thing is dull, "It's been a year and nothing... call me when he's dead." He states gravely.

"Sherlock…" the older man shakes his head weightily as he sips his drink. "Where have you been?" He changes the subject.

"London, of course."

"Joining the homeless network," he raises a brow, "I shouldn't have to remind you how dangerous that is."

"Must it always revert to that…" Sherlock huffs in frustration.

"Someone has to worry, since you obviously don't."

"You sound like mummy… Some things don't change…" he rolls his eyes.

"Mhm…" Mycroft hums, "And you sound like a child." He sighs thoughtfully, "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

"Thought I'd offer proof that I'm alive…" Sherlock lies.

"How courteous…" the brother's eye one another, "I'm not paying your rent, brother, I told you that's your responsibility," he adds seeing through the younger man, "Unless you visit father…" he starts knowing that's a lost cause, not that he'd blame him, "At least call mummy."

They're silent for a while, Sherlock contemplates to offer; a little miffed that Mycroft saw through him so clearly. "Fine, I'll call her." He concedes, scooping up his coat. "Rents due on the 2nd," he tosses back dramatically exiting the room.

"Don't disappear again Sherlock," he calls after him with as a warning, draining the dregs of his brandy.

* * *

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	37. Jail

Two weeks before Christmas Sherlock gets arrested, and as luck would have it Mycroft is out of town. The younger Holmes calls brother, only to get redirected to a secure line where ever he is.

"Hello?" Mycroft answers.

"Mycroft, where are you?" Sherlock asks from the stations phone.

"I'm busy elsewhere Sherlock; I have a job remember …where are you?"

"Scotland Yard," he states quietly.

"Playing detective…" Mycroft huffs in disinterest.

"Not exactly..."

"Sherlock you didn't," he accuses, putting two and two together, and wondering how this escaped his peoples notice. "What are the chargers?"

"They don't have a case, Mycroft, there's no proof of any of it."

"What are you being charged for?"

"Breaking and entering and drug possession," Sherlock admits, "But they weren't mine and I was trying…"

"I'm out of the country Sherlock," Mycroft cuts him off calmly masking his disappointment. "I'll send someone to fetch you." He rings off without waiting for Sherlock to reply. Mycroft calls Mummy to inform her of the situation thinking she'll be able to collect the younger man, but somehow Father is sent instead.

"Holmes, someone here for ya," The officer calls unlocking the cell.

"About time," Sherlock complains rising to his feet, "I…" The words die on his lips as the suited figure of his father comes into the cell.

"Give us a minute will you?" Mr. Holmes asks the guard.

"Sure thing, sir," The officer nods taking his leave, "Give a shout when you're ready."

"How're you feeling father?" Sherlock chokes out, trying to keep the panic out of his tone.

"Better, but I hardly think you care," he eyes his son, "This how you've been spending your time in London?" he looks around the cell. "This how you repay what we've done for you?" Mr. Holmes sneers, backing Sherlock into the corner.

"It's a misunderstanding," He hardens, keeping his emotions in check. "Not like you care," he throws back. "All you've done was send me away," he accuses.

Mr. Holmes' rage takes over for a minute as he pins Sherlock to the wall by his throat, "You ungrateful little shite," he spits, as the younger man squirms in his grasp, and he composes himself. "You're right, I suppose… I don't care. At least not anymore, you stopped being my concern the moment you became a common junkie." He smirks sardonically, "You want to rule your own life, son?" Mr. Holmes shakes Sherlock roughly, "Welcome to your kingdom," he motions to the cell room, "End this Sherlock," he warns with a tightening grip, "Stop breaking your mother's heart."

With that he drops the younger man from his grasp; Sherlock slipping to the floor, regaining the breath he didn't know he was holding. His dark head bowed, not wanting to look at his father's face a moment longer.

The older man straitens his suite, "If you want to die in the gutter like a pauper, then be my guest." Mr. Holmes calls the guard back to the cell.

"All set, then?" the officer questions, confused by the scene before him.

"I'm afraid there's been some confusion, this is no son of mine." Mr. Holmes informs him, pleasantly.

"Oh?" the other man nods, closing and locking the cell after Mr. Holmes steps out. "Sorry for the inconvenience sir."

Sherlock remains immobile, the words sinking in and hallowing him out as his father's footsteps echo away down the hall. The itching in his arms was returning and he did his best to swallow it down; his mind wondering why Mycroft would send that man to collect him or think he even would.

About an hour later, Lestrade comes by with a cigarette. "They'll probably release you first thing tomorrow." He informs him, pulling a chair up to the cell and passing a cigarette through the bars. "Unless you make bail," he lights the tobacco product for the younger man.

"I won't," Sherlock states, not really in the mood for conversation.

"Who was that bloke that came 'round earlier?"

"No one..."

"Right," Lestrade nods clearly skeptical at that reply as he observes Sherlock's quiet sullenness, quite unlike his usual self.

"There's hope for you yet, Lestrade," Sherlock informs him as he exhales the smoke.

"Um, thanks…" He states in confusion, "Any way… we brought that old bird in, that you mentioned." Sherlock brightens a bit at this information. "Turns out you're right, couldn't keep her story straight for the life of her…Almost felt sorry for the poor thing." He smirks.

Sherlock doesn't make it for Christmas, despite Mycroft's attempts to persuade and apprehend him. It's just another year of excuses as to where his brother is, but this time its Sherlock's choice not attend the party or anything. Mycroft can't help but feel like his family is finally crumbling and his efforts are only delaying the inevitable.

* * *

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	38. Broken

At the Holmes' Christmas party, Mycroft finds out about what happened after Sherlock was arrested. He was keeping up his charming façade, masking his wandering thoughts behind a glass of scotch. While chatting with the great aunts he over hears his father conversing with some colleagues, all of them well on their way to being over served.

"Where is the little scamp these days?" Mr. Richardson questions amiably.

"Yes, haven't seen Sherlock in…what two Christmases is it?" Mr. Fielding ponders.

"He's off in London," Mr. Holmes informs them, downing his drink. "Doing god knows what…"

"Ah to be young again…" Richardson interjects wistfully.

"Still doing that chemist business?"

Mr. Holmes shoots the man a dark look, procuring a new drink from a waiter passing by, "Finding himself or some lark…" he explains.

"Never saw two boys so different," Fielding offers, comparing the two Holmes brothers.

"I try not to think of it," Mr. Holmes dismisses sardonically.

Mycroft had enough eavesdropping and excuses himself from the women he was "conversing" with. He sets off in search of his mother, asking Sylvia if had seen the matriarch, and sending him off to the kitchen. Mummy is there, dressed regally in her crimson evening gown and smoking out the window like a teenager; a habit that is merely a social one.

"Mummy," Mycroft calls gently, as not to startle the woman, "What are you doing?"

"It doesn't feel like the holidays," she starts distantly, keeping her back to her son. "Your father's dying, cher…" Madame Holmes begins calmly, "He won't listen to the doctors and I know he's drinking as we speak," she shrugs in resignation. "He used to be so warm and full of life," she speaks of her husband while lost in a memory. "Sometimes I wonder if that was ever real or if my love had been wasted…"

"Mummy," her son starts, not wanting to hear these things; but knowing he's the only one who will listen.

"I want you to know, I never cheated on your father… despite what his poisonous friends planted in his mind," She turns to her son with pleading eyes. "The whole notion is ridiculous, Sherlock's more like him then he'd care to admit…"

Mycroft nods at the truth of the statement, while Sherlock a lot like their mother he had his father's sharp eyes and the similar tenacious personality.

"Your father will leave this world with a legacy of wealth and distrust; and leave us with money and fantôms." She trembles slightly from the chill of the open window.

The words sink in, as his mother returns to her cigarette. "How'd Sherlock seem last week?" he asks gently.

"I wouldn't know…" Madame Holmes admits with a smoky exhale. "He went," she insinuates.

Mycroft's blood runs cold at that particular notion, cursing himself for not foreseeing it. "Pardon?"

"I was going to go, but I called first and by the time I would have arrived they wouldn't release him."

"What did father tell you?"

"Said he took care of it and brought Sherlock back to his flat," Madame Holmes looks at her son with concern upon her fine features. "Why? What's the matter, Mycroft?"

"I was informed he was detained overnight," He iterates carefully, anger rising at the situation; anger at his father's actions, but also anger towards himself for not realizing sooner.

"Mycroft," his mother calls as he storms out of the room.

He finds his father lounging in one of the high back chairs near the fire chatting with a couple of gentlemen from the club. The group chortling drunkenly around vine cigars, that Uncle Theo no doubt brought.

"Mycroft, son, join us," Mr. Holmes beckons, "Horace was just telling us how he nearly froze to death in Russia." He chuckles.

"Almost died if weren't for Adriana and her large bosom," Horace adds, causing riotous chortling.

"I'm afraid I need to have a word, Father," Mycroft hisses, "As much as I hate to have to drag you away…" He covers smoothly.

"Fine fine," Mr. Holmes nods at the urgency from his son.

The pair retreats to the office on the other side of the house, giving Mycroft time to figure out his plan here.

"What's this about, son?" Mr. Holmes questions, plopping into the closest arm chair.

"What did you say to him?" He asks vehemently.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know you paid Sherlock a visit, now what did you say?" Mycroft threatens.

"Is this about not bailing him out?" Mr. Holmes rolls his eyes, "A night in the yard, did him good; you can't always rescue him, he needs to stand by his actions."

"I agree," the younger man nods, "However, a night in jail is hardly my concern in this matter."

"What does it matter what I said to him, he's no longer my concern," he states flippantly.

The comment alone was enough for Mycroft to discern the likely pattern of events that transpired from that conversation. "You disowned him?" he asks carefully trying to control the confusion and anger.

"Not in so many words…" Mr. Holmes slurs, "Don't be so dramatic, your mother wouldn't stand for it."

"Well something is pushing him away, because he's clearly not here and you have nothing to lose any more…" he insinuates coldly.

"Your brother decided a while ago he no longer wanted to be a part of this family," The man shrugged with disinterest, "I recommend you forget about him, caring is not an advantage," he offers, rising from the chair. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a party to return to."

* * *

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	39. Loathing

AN: I always worry about certain chapters being unnecessary or boring, but thanks for proving me wrong guys! Your feed back is amazing...

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><p>Sherlock spends Christmas alone, high, and hating himself. Even the various experiments mutating around the flat can't distract his anxious mind as he moves about the flat. He plucks idly at his violin trying to think of nothing, a task that is proving more and more impossible. The main thought is how he allowed himself to resort back to this.<p>

Boredom wasn't that horrible at present and it there was no way he did it because of that man. It would be irrational if that was the case, but the gnawing guilt at the relapse was physically daunting. Though it wasn't enough to stop him, another thing that didn't add up; Sherlock attributed it to not caring. The average person didn't do things that they knew to be wrong, however he knew it was wrong and did it anyway, regardless of the after effect.

Mummy had sent his presents, more useless items; but he opened them anyway. As expected he received useless baubles and such from his mother and something meretricious from his brother. Auntie Vie's present was the best; from her he received a carton of cigarettes with the express instructions to call and not to overdo it, along with a long wool coat. He couldn't help the small smirk that graced his lips as he opened it, realizing that he actually did miss some aspects of France.

Sherlock actually wrote her a thank you note, but he couldn't remember if he sent it or not; especially since he went on a cleaning tirade while he was high. Afterwards cursing the task since he could no longer find anything and the organization caused disquiet in his mind. Clutter helped him think and his flat was no longer a sanctuary for his thoughts; so he went out. Donning his new coat he escaped out onto the streets.

It was quiet out, everyone off with their families or fast asleep due to the hour. With no particular plan he just wandered the streets, letting his feet take him where they will while he ruminated over things. Once he finally came out of himself he had walked practically to the other side of the city and dawn was casting a half light on everything. It looked like a Hollywood set, eerily empty and fake with little to know people around.

Traipsing along the pavement to head back his flat, his phone alerts him to a new text.

MSG:

Happy Christmas

(We need to talk)

-MH

Sherlock's unsure what his brother means by the talking bit and a part of him wishes he ignored the message. Reading it made him remember what he was missing out on and while he denied it even to himself, he missed what Christmas used to mean when they where children. Idly, he spins his phone in his hand as he contemplates a reply, than quickly sends one off.

MSG: MH

.

-SH

The period was his way of showing that while he received to message, he had nothing to say or comment on. It frustrated a lot of people, but to Sherlock it was a seen as a curtsy; proof that he wasn't ignoring the messages. Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he skulked back to the flat realizing that food was probably in order. Racking his mind for the last time he ate, and then remembering what he used the food money for. The guilt that was temporarily forgotten once again returned as he climbed up the stairs.

An odd anxious feeling settled over him at the thought of the order he'd coalesced his belonging into. It was irrational for such a feeling, he knew, though it was there all the same. Sherlock didn't even bother removing his coat as he dropped himself onto the tiny couch, his long legs hanging off the end. Removing a pack from the French cigarettes tata had sent he lights up, the familiar smoke filling his lungs and assaulting his senses with the memories of the seaside. After the cigarette Sherlock pulls the coat tightly around his slender form and curs up in himself, the ample position for self pity until he slips into unconsciousness.

He wakes up to the unpleasant feeling of being watched, his body stiffens a he contemplates an escape plan and who could possibly be in his flat.

"Relax Sherly," Mycroft drawls lazily.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder to double check the voice matched and slowly turns around. He picks up an errant cup, checking the contents before taking a sip of the cold tea. "Two days," he mumbles to himself realizing how long he'd been out.

"You look terrible brother," Mycroft states the concern not masked from his tone, a fact that gives the younger man pause.

"You're here for a tete-a-tete, then?" Sherlock sighs, rolling his shoulders to dispel the stiffness from the small couch.

"Indeed," he nods gently, "Not here," he states in dislike, "While I'm glad to see you've cleaned your hovel, I believe breakfast is in order," he smirks softly.

"You found me this hovel."

"No I found you a flat, what you turn it into, is an entirely different matter," Mycroft stands. The younger man procures and lights a cigarette, exhaling before standing to follow his brother.

"Tata does know how to spoil you," he comments lightly, his tone fond as he observes the new coat.

"What is this about Mycroft?" he asks around his tobacco product, stepping onto the street and into the waiting car.

"Making sure you get a proper meal… Consider a part of your Christmas present."

"Hardly," Sherlock raises an eyebrow skeptically, "You want to talk, so talk."

Mycroft sighs heavily as they pull up to their destination, "I didn't call father."

"What?" he snaps, his hand on the door handle.

"When you called me from the yard, I called mummy to fetch you… he lied to all of us Sherlock, but I know what he said to you," He pauses as not to seem like he's rambling.

"Of course you do, you probably helped word it," Sherlock breathes defensively.

"Will you listen, Sherlock!" Mycroft snaps, "Paint me as the bad guy all you want, but I know who you're really angry at and I understand it perfectly now and I'm sorry."

"You really don't," he frowns, breathing heavily to hold back anything that threatens to come forth and bolting from the car, his brother close behind him.

"I know more than you realize," he sighs, the younger man starting to walk away from him, "What about breakfast?" He questions the retreating form.

"Not hungry."

"He's dying Sherlock," He calls, "Thought you should know."

"Text me when it's past tense," Sherlock seethes, quickening his pace and disappearing around the corner.

* * *

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	40. Missent

Mycroft's work once again catches up with him, leaving no time to properly observe his brother's comings and goings. It's probably for the best though, Sherlock made it perfectly clear he wanted to be left alone and was becoming skilled at avoiding the cameras. Despite Mycroft's mental protestations his father's words where circling inside his head. "Caring is not an advantage," Grant it, he didn't necessary believe that; instead he took it to mean that it was easier to not care.

That was proving to be truer and truer as the weeks went by, where the only free time he had was the time he spent unconscious. In reality, Mycroft knew that it wasn't that he stopped caring just that he didn't have the time at present. The thought of all the trouble his brother could be getting up to plagued his dreams, but there was only so much he could do.

Then one day, out of the blue, he checked his email and was surprised to find a new message from Sherlock.

To: M 100217 H

Mycroft,

Brother,

'Croft,

The British Government,

I probably won't send this, sorry… (See that, apologizing for nothing. Pointless.)

I don't, I'm typing for no reason. This won't be sense, make sense. See, I'm not even editing because I won't send this and, well … for the best really. Ramblings of a mad man aren't really priority and don't exist if no one sees them, possibly, that's debatable, need more data… Why do I expect you to answer as if this is instant messaging, Thank "god" it's not… Pierre, the skull you gave me, thanks, was being surly (Hence the email I won't send)

What must you think of me… This is utterly pointless, but I suppose you could argue everything is pointless. Did you know you spend more time being dead than you do being alive (you probably did, know that…) It's a terrible thought, paralyzing even. Imagine the pressure of that, here's a blink of an eye… doing something amazing, look what Di Vinci did… Look what any one of importance did.

You think anyone will remember him? I know you will… I might delete things… You don't, you store it all, but not like the normal people do… it's different, I suppose. It's weird how perceptions differ from person to person, I see myself…..in one way, and others another. I'm a terrible person… it's true, don't you dare defend me…

Don't tell anyone (Again, stupid you'll never see this…) I don't want father to die, not really… Though when I think of why they're all selfish reasons… (See horrible man I am now, apple/tree or whatever they say… who IS they?) Reasons: I don't want to go to the funeral, Want him around to prove him wrong (Unlikely, but…), Mummy… Do you think I could perform the autopsy? (Maybe if it's in his will or something…) Never mind, I'd rather not see that and he'd never agree to that, I don't exist anymore (Literally and figuratively)… Good thing I'm not sending this, what a waste of time for you.

I have too much time and not enough, isn't that odd… I think I need to go outside, it's… drowning, stifling, piercing, enclosing, terrifying, lonely, dark… I can't find the right word(s). I think roof top exploration is need, there's no camera's up there ;)… (I'd ask you not to surveillance that, but again...Pointless.)

-SH :/

Mycroft wasn't sure how to process what he just read, it was more honest than he was used to seeing his brother be. Even though it wasn't meant for him to ever read, it worried him all the same. All that was whirling inside Sherlock's head and he was traipsing about roof tops, not to mention talking to inanimate objects. The main concern was the question he didn't want to ask himself, was Sherlock back in the grips of cocaine? The rambling nature of the letter and flittering tangents seemed to affirm that hypothesis.

Sitting back in his desk chair he turns over various ideas in his head of how to go about this. Sherlock always had spectacular timing, he thought snidely, rubbing the bridge of his nose. There was no one close to his brother that could keep an eye on him or anything; he'd insist Sherlock get a roommate if he ever moves. While his mind worked a person flashed in his mind that could be just the ally he was looking for.

He quickly phoned his assistant, "I need you to set up an appointment with Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard, soon as possible." He orders.

A couple days later, a very nervous Sergeant is sitting in his office and nervously drumming his fingers upon his thigh. "Wha' you say this is about, sir?"

"Please, call me Mycroft," He offers. "I understand that you've been utilizing my brother's assistance on some cases," Mycroft starts smoothly.

"Yes that's correct," Lestrade nods.

"I'm concerned about him, he's had a bit of trouble with some… illicit substances and I know that can be very damaging to a prospective Detective Inspector."

"He has been a bit off, lately…" he realizes aloud, "Wha' can I do to help?"

"If you'd be so kind as to keep an eye on him, note any changes," Mycroft shrugs, "I won't ask you to work around the law in any way of course," he clarifies with slight humor, "I differ to your discretion, if you deem it out of hand, than by all means arrest him."

"Hopefully it won't come to that…"

"It might," he states sadly, "Nothing else seems to work."

"Right," Lestrade nods the gears turning in his head. "If it threatens the work that might do it, but I'll keep an eye on him."

"Wonderful," Mycroft stands with Lestrade following his lead, the two men shaking hands cordially before he shows the officer out.

Mycroft saved the email and had the exterior of Sherlock's flat put under surveillance as well as the rooftops, but he felt more at ease after his chat with Lestrade.

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><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D KEEP BEING AWESOME GUYS! :HEARTS:<p>

(If I understood love, you'd have it all ;D)


	41. Death

Mr. Holmes dies that spring, massive heart attack on the way to work and no one's surprised. The man was a time bomb, after all, especially since he refused to heed the doctor's advice. The week is a bit of whirl wind of arrangements and Mummy's exhausted despite Mycroft's help in the matters. He sends Sherlock a text, as was requested.

MSG:

Funeral is on Friday

9…DON'T BE LATE!

I'll send a car.

-MH

When Sherlock arrives, Mycroft barley recognizes him. There's bruising under his eyes from lack of sleep, his face is jaunt due to weight loss, and he's thrumming with an unnatural energy. His first instinct is to not let mummy see him like this, even though that would be impossible today. Excusing himself, he heads into the hall to intercept his brother; dragging the younger man into an empty private room.

"You're high, of all days…" Mycroft accuses.

"Nice to see you too brother," Sherlock huffs in annoyance.

"Cut the act Sherlock," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "Don't you see you're proving him right by doing this to yourself!"

"Irrelevant," he crosses his thin arms defensively, "I don't need to be here," he challenges, his finger tapping anxiously on his arm.

"Yes you do."

"It's a bit inappropriate, a party would be more fitting," Sherlock states haughtily, Mycroft impulsively slaps his brother across the face, earning a wide eyed look of shock as the younger man holds his reddened cheek.

"I don't give a buggering arse about your opinions of our father, Sherlock, he's dead and there's nothing for that." His tone is low and dangerous as he stares down at his brother, "This is not about you…Now you are going to straighten up and accompany me back out there," he iterates slowly, "While there is no helping the fact that you're high, you're going to do your damndest to hide it. You will stand quietly beside mummy and cordially accept the condolences. Give our mother some semblance of peace right now… Can you do that Sherlock? Can you do that for mummy's sake?"

The younger man's frown deepens as he swallows hard, nodding slowly in understanding.

"Excellent," Mycroft nods, smoothing out his brother's jacket and buttoning and errant button to make him appear more appropriate, "Shall we…" He leads tersely.

"Oh bebe," Madame Holmes sniffs watery from crying as she embraces her youngest.

Sherlock leaning down to return the embrace, "I'm sorry mummy," he mumbles softy before she releases him.

Sherlock does as he's told for the funeral, playing the part of a grieving and dotting son perfectly; even accompanying mother to pay her respects at the open casket. The lack of sleep is catching up with him as he's coming off his high at the end of the services and such.

"Will you be staying?" Mummy asks Sherlock hopefully, "For the weekend at least."

"Of course he is," Mycroft replies, shooting his brother a warning glance, "We both are."

"You boys are too sweet to your dear old mummy," She smiles sadly, squeezing both their hands before excusing herself to bid farewell to some relatives.

"Here," Mycroft grunts, holding a cup of coffee in his brother's line of vision.

"Thanks…" Sherlock mumbles distantly form his seat as he lights a cigarette.

"Aunt Vie will be here tomorrow," The elder man stands looking out at the diminishing guests as he sips his own beverage.

"Mhmm…" he hums around the tobacco product, part of him glad that he'll get to see his aunt, but mostly guilty. He wonders if he'll know instantly or if he can hide it, the notion alone a foolish one considering his current state.

"Sherlock," Mycroft tries again, his brother clearly not hearing his question while staring off into his mind. "When was the last time you ate? He asks again, as his brother gazes up with him with his glazed gray eyes, "I mean a proper meal."

"Um…" Sherlock tries to think, racking his brain, "What day is it?"

"…Friday…" he sighs, it was terrible seeing his usually sharp and brilliant brother reduced to such despondency, flashes of the unintentional email running through his mind.

"Then it's either been a day or a week…depending on the date…" he admits roboticly.

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><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D KEEP BEING AWESOME GUYS! :HEARTS:<p>

(If I understood love, you'd have it all ;D)


	42. Funeral

AN: There's probably only a couple more chapters left in this story until we catch up to where the show picks up etc...(AKA John)

I'm contemplating a continuation story that would still have the brother's tumultuous relationship, but be more about a John/Sherlock relationship.

(Like in between what's seen in the ep's etc) Let me know if what you think...

* * *

><p>Sherlock stays for dinner, actually eating to everyone's pleasant surprise. Mummy retires early, Mycroft stays up; even long after Sherlock slinks up to his room. Mycroft's mind turns over the past week, work, the situation with his brother and all the stress there in. At least the funeral was over and all that had to be worked out was the will and the estate, which wasn't much considering most of it, was still under Mummy's possession.<p>

The Sherlock problem was another story. He was at his wits end with this nonsense. What was the point of stepping in now, if it wasn't going to make a difference. His brother needed to want, or at the very least have, to stop the drugs. The waiting game was dangerous, however. All Mycroft could do is wait for the day Lestrade had to step in or Sherlock came to his senses; he just hoped that it happened before it was too late.

The next morning, Sherlock is gone. Leaving Mycroft to once again make excuses for his foolish brother's actions, telling mummy he was called back to London for work. It was horrible, but the back lash from the truth could very well break their mother's heart and there was no way he could do that. He was used to lying; of course, his job consisted of it for the safety of the general population. That didn't make doing it easier in his mind.

Sherlock couldn't stay, he knew it was stupid and childish, he just couldn't. Mummy might not recognize the cause of his behavior, but he knew Auntie Vie would and that was not something he could do to that woman. He also knew Mycroft would cover for him, fulfilling his big brother role, as usual, actually came in handy in some instances. The trouble was getting back to London at such a late hour, the trains weren't running yet and a cab would cost money he didn't want to spend.

So he decided to walk, wrapping his coat tightly around himself and turning the collar up against the wind he trudged forward. Sherlock figured it would get him closer and by the time he reached the next town or so the trains would be running again. The journey was exhausting, by the time he did reach an open station he almost wished he had stayed to face the music, as it where.

The ticket lady eyed him warily when he purchased his ticket as if she could read his story disapproved of it, Sherlock glowered at her as he paid the fare. It was too late, or too early depending, to be on the receiving end of such looks. He would have told her off to with some well spotted observations, but in his current state that took energy he didn't want to waste. Once the train finally arrived, he was able to get some rest until he was back in London.

Once back at his flat he showers, completing the tasks to almost feel human again; as much as it's possible for him. He flips through his mail and emails to see if there are any distractions, something really clever and interesting to help him forget and not have to be bored. There is a nice case in Florida that could put a guilty man back on the streets with his wife. Sherlock replies to the letter, calculating how long it will take to reach the woman and for her to send him out. Three days, possibly more, he figures after sending it; returning to his flat to ignore the boredom as he waits.

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! They are super helpful and appreciated :D KEEP BEING AWESOME GUYS!<p>

Also a while ago someone asked if Madame Holmes worked etc and to answer that she did... She went back to work after Sherlock was born, but it was an on and off thing until she couldn't bare feeling like she was neglecting her children by not being there for them. (Around when Sherlock was 7 or so...)


	43. Straws

AN: I've been contemplating it... and it's looking more and more like there will be another story after this (I'll let you know the name of it when this one is over)

Like I said before it will take place in between what's scene in the episodes. It will continue to delve into the Holmes brother's relationship like this one and Brothers, but it will address how that's effected etc by John being in the picture and such. (It will probably contain S/J.) Also just like these other stories, it will jump around between Sherlock's POV and Mycroft's etc... Ultimately a continuation.

Again, Let me know what you think... your reviews and comments really are so helpful and great! :D Thanks!

* * *

><p>Sherlock disappears again; the last intell Mycroft receives on his brother's whereabouts is that he's boarding a plan to Florida of all places. He assumes it's for a case, but there's no way of knowing for sure yet. Luckily, the job keeps him distracted from worrying too much about Sherlock. The younger man is out of the country after all and there's only so much trouble he could cause on a case. Pushing it to the back of his mind, he continues on with his daily routines. Mummy was staying France for a while, having returned with Auntie Vie; which gave the oldest Holmes one less thing to fret over.<p>

A month or so later Sherlock returns to London, and the only glimpses Mycroft receives are half obscured photos of a tall dark figure gallivanting about the city. At least it's some reassurance that his brother is alive, but he'd prefer some sort of reassurance or contact. The night of the funeral, however, he promised himself that he'd give Sherlock his distance. The ball was in his court and while Mycroft by no means washed his hands of the younger man, he certainly decided to act only when strictly necessary.

It was mid fall, when his the moment it finally happened. Sherlock continued to ignore all attempts Mycroft and Mummy made to contact him, his birthday completely disregarded which wasn't too surprising.

"There's been an incident sir," Mycroft's assistant bursts into his office, handing him the report.

Mycroft meets with Lestrade at the hospital, the two men having a word before the elder Holmes goes to see his brother.

"I could just…" Lestrade starts in frustrated anger, "I should have seen this."

"My brother tends to be very secretive, Detective Inspector, as I'm sure you are aware," Mycroft assures him, using the man's new title. "You did what you could."

"Yeah, well," the D.I. shakes his head. "If you don't mind me saying, the bloody genius has really done himself in this time." He sighs clearly berating himself for failing to take notice, "It's a wonder it ain't worse, is all…"

"How is he?" Mycroft inquires, not sure he really wants to know.

"About a stone or two underweight, sleep deprived, and more coke and caffeine in him then blood… The doctor's say he's lucky they got him in time."

"I see," he nods grimly, as he processes the information.

"I hate to have to tell you all this," Lestrade admits sincerely, "But I figured you'd find it out anyway," he smirks a bit with a shrug, "We're going by the book more or less with this one."

"Thank you Lestrade," Mycroft shakes his hand, "And congratulations on the promotion, I'm certain you have a promising career ahead of you," he nods in parting as he enters his brother's hospital room.

Sherlock awakes in the hospital, his eye fluttering open and falling upon the familiar form of his brother standing in the corner. "I'm fine, go away," he rolls his eyes, moving to remove the IV in his hand only to find that his one wrist has been hand cuffed to the bed rail. "This is absurd," he huffs, clinking the metal as if that would release him.

"As you can see, brother, you aren't going anywhere," Mycroft informs him coolly. "Fate has finally caught up with you."

"You don't believe in that rubbish," he snaps.

"It hardly matters how you say it Sherlock… would you prefer your luck has run out?" He wonders airily.

"I'd prefer if you left."

"I gave you plenty of chances," Mycroft starts, ignoring his brother's hostility, "I helped you the best way I could, then gave you freedom and space, but apparently there's nothing for it." He shakes his head. "I've wasted enough time on this Sherlock, and while I'll always be concerned about you…" Sherlock scoffs at that, earning a perturbed glare from his brother. "No matter what you chose to believe… This matter is no longer in my hands."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock glares at him, haughtily.

"I'm sure you can figure it out, brother dear," He states amiably. "Lestrade will be in shortly to explain it to you."

"Mycroft," he begins his tone low and dangerous.

"I'll be in touch, Sherlock…" Mycroft crosses to the door, "I do hope the work is more important, this time." He adds before taking his leave.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts after him, the hand-cuff clanking angrily against the rail as he tries to follow after him. "Get back here, 'CROFT!"

* * *

><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU!<p> 


	44. DI

Lestrade wanders in, shortly after Mycroft's departure, looking confused and unsure. Sherlock is still feebly clanking the hand cuff as he pouts dejectedly at the corner once occupied by his brother. The D.I. shuffles awkwardly, the younger man practically hearing the cogs tuning inside the man's rudimentary mind.

"You remember wha' happened?" Lestrade asks after clearing his throat.

"I was bored, and there was no cases…" he drawls tonelessly.

"That's it?"

Sherlock dramatically turns his head to look at the D.I. as if it took a lot of effort, "You've clearly never been bored."

"You expect me to believe that?" The older man crosses his arms expectantly.

"Our history would prove that a correct hypothesis…"

"Yeah well, now I've reason to doubt ya, don't I?"

Sherlock drops his head back on to the hospital pillow, "Let's have it then, Detective Inspector."

"What?" Lestrade asks, taken aback.

"I'm clearly being charged," he rattles the cuff for emphasis, "So…"

"Right now, I'm waiting for an explanation Sherlock." He sighs tiredly, "Of all the things I thought about you…"

"…You're disappointed."

"A bit yeah, but I'm mostly confused. Do I need to have you sanctioned?" Lestrade questions earnestly, "Because I will, though I don't know what good it will do ya…"

Sherlock remains silent, looking sullen and a bit apologetic as he stares at the blanket.

"Damn it, Sherlock, do you have any idea how this looks?"

"Is that all anyone cares about," he asks groans softly after a beat.

"I was just promoted yeah, and it's not on for the new D.I. to be consulting with… recreational drug users." Lestrade tells him with simple honesty, "There's only so much I can do here."

"It was an accident," Sherlock admits, "Just exhaustion catching up with me, I was on my way to procure food and… here I am."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with your diet of cocaine and caffeine would it?"

The younger man quirks his mouth guiltily as he remains silent.

"This is what's going to happen, Sherlock." Lestrade states, laying it out for the boy as he sits in the chair next to the bed, "If you wanta be called on cases, you have to be clean." He takes a beat, making sure he words it carefully, "That means you'll be subjected to random screenings and drug busts, It's my neck on the line here ya know?"

Sherlock contemplates the new data before nodding slowly in acquiescence.

"Right," the D.I. nods, "If I bring you in for a case you get tested right away, though if that comes up positive or you give me a reason to suspect sumthin' then I'll send in the boys and the courts will deal with ya. Am I making myself clear Sherlock?"

"Crystalline," he replies feigning his usual acidity, but falling flat.

"Good," he stands, "I'll let ya rest…"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock calls quietly, the older man pausing at the door; he lifts up his cuffed wrist with an imploring look.

"I'm not an idiot Sherlock," Lestrade smirks, "Despite what ya may think…I know you'll pull a runner the minute those are off." Sherlock frowns at the reply. "Oh and there's an officer outside, just in case you do manage to get that far." He states sternly as he leaves.

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><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU!<p> 


	45. Well

AN: THANK YOU ALL SOOOOOOOOOO MUCH!

After careful consideration...The next installment of this will be titled Solutions and will continue on in the same spirit of this, picking up where this leaves off and exploring the brother's relationship while Sherlock's clean and with John coming in.

Brother's is still continuing on indefinably (as long as there's ideas and such)

I will also be starting another story in the similar style to Brother's that can be read alone or as a part of this verse that will be S/J cute stuff... (Which if you have suggestions for feel free)

Thanks again, guys!

ENJOY

* * *

><p>Sherlock's released after the worst of the detoxing is over and he's back to healthier weight. It was a long and tedious time, the boredom driving him just as crazy as the annoying bloke he had to share a room with. The doctors wrongly thinking that another person would help distract him. Lestrade popped in a couple times, making sure he was still in the hospital and bringing him some case files; but Mycroft remained absent. Sherlock wasn't really surprised, Mycroft made it perfectly clear that he was no longer dealing with this. There wasn't enough data currently to figure out if he'd still be keeping an eye on things.<p>

It was sort of a relief to finally be back at his small flat, which was in a way an extension of his brain and provided more stimulation then the hospital ever could. It would be a full month later before he was invited to crimes scenes again; the whole drug screening was ridiculous at first. Sherlock worked it out with Lestrade that it would be a better system to do them at random every couple weeks, sometimes more sometimes less; to prevent a discernable pattern.

Sherlock wasn't too surprised to find that the work really was the best deterrent for keeping him from going back to the solution. He only had to prevent the abhorrent ennui from setting in, taking private cases as well as helping the yard. Most of his clients came to him from word of mouth, but it was better than nothing. That is until he set up his website, a place to post about his methods and report interesting data from his ongoing experiments.

December was well under way, Sherlock smoking as he strides down the street coming from the lab at Bart's. A black towne car pulls up in front of him before he turns the street, a young woman stepping out.

"Get in, Mr. Holmes," She instructs casually, "I've been instructed to collect you, don't make this difficult."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, flicking the cigarette onto the street before ducking into the vehicle. "What's the fat git want?" He questions the new assistant, the woman just giving him a knowingly look as she fiddles with her phone.

They ride in silence, Sherlock being brought to the Diogenes club and lead through the dark halls to the only room where speaking was allowed. Mycroft was sitting there, as if he was the queen herself, with tea and various treats waiting on the table.

"So glad you could join me, brother," he offers.

"As I had a choice," Sherlock huffs, plopping into the chair across from him.

"You're looking better," Mycroft continue undeterred.

"What's this about, I have places to be."

"Laying about your flat while monitoring mold spores is hardy of importance," he pours the tea, handing his brother his cup.

"I thought you were done with me," Sherlock accuses mildly, inspecting the tea.

"Mummy wants to see you," Mycroft cuts to the chase, "She wants to spend Christmas at Vie's, and is hoping for our attendance." They're quiet for a beat as the younger man takes in the information, "Normally I would suggest against it, but it is the first Christmas since… Well you know."

"How is Mummy?" he inquires softly, the question surprising himself and his brother.

"Well," he answers, distracting himself with sipping his tea, "I believe her time with tata has been quite beneficial, she plans to return in the New Year."

Sherlock nods quietly, "When are we to go?" he concedes, knowing fighting it would be pointless and probably land him kidnapped to France by his brother's people.

"You may leave at your earliest convenience… I have a lot of things to attend to; it'll be a tight fit for my schedule."

Sherlock nods curtly, making sure he didn't have anything important on.

"Find a real job yet brother?" Mycroft asks smugly.

"My job is real, the fact that I invented it doesn't alter its reality," he snaps, rising from his seat. "I'll leave Friday; I'm assured you can arrange that." Sherlock moves to the exit.

"Of course, see you soon Sherlock."

The younger man grunts indistinguishably as he takes his leave, from the odd little club his brother is so fond of.

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><p>:)REVIEW! PLEASE and THANK YOU! (Look for the continuation called Solutions)<p> 


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